Cavalier Prince of Pirates (Post 8)

*It was Susan’s comment “Mmmm good” that convinced me to post this sooner rather than later. I just couldn’t stop laughing. Now, I realize this is a fairly short post, but hopefully it makes up for its briefness with… juiciness? I hope you enjoy it, and let me know either way.*

When the governor finally decided to end the evening (which wasn’t until well past midnight), I was exhausted, full, tipsy, and ready to collapse in a heap. Only Howel showed no signs of wilting. Governor Agostinho bid us good-night and had his manservant show us to our private rooms. They were everything the governor had promised: large, lavish, with full-length mirrors, a tub, and a large four-post bed. A long window overlooked the harbor, which shimmered by moonlight.

The moment the doors closed behind us, Howel exhaled, slumping. It was the first sign of exhaustion I had seen him show all evening. He immediately shed his coat, sword, and waistcoat, kicking off his shoes. “I’m ready for bed,” he groaned, tossing his hat in a corner. He saw that I simply stood by, twisting my skirt in my hands, and stopped disrobing. “What’s the matter, lass?”

The butterflies in my gut were hard at work again. I glanced uneasily at the bed, and Howel laughed. “Is that what’s worrying you? Egad, Sabrina, rest easy! You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” He grinned at me as he grabbed a couple pillows and a blanket from the bed and tossed them to the floor, in a pile. He whistled to himself as he removed his stockings and, leaving on his undershirt and breeches, sat on the floor. “G’night, lass,” he said.

I removed everything but my shift, took my hair down, wiped my makeup off with a handkerchief as best I could, then slipped into the bed quietly. “Good-night,” I said with a sigh, the room going dark as he blew out the candles.

Howel had thought I’d been worried that he’d want to sleep with me, while in truth, I’d been worried that he wouldn’t want to sleep with me. I wanted him to take me, dammit. I was so tired of waiting. What was his problem? I was fairly certain he wanted me. What was he waiting for? A written invitation? I thought women these days didn’t make the first move. Maybe I’d been wrong, and he didn’t, in fact, want me…

Enough was enough. I wasn’t going to torture myself anymore. Just as he’d needed an answer, I did too. I was going to take charge of the situation. Instead of waiting around for the damn pirate to take me, I was going to take the pirate. I was from 2009, after all. To hell with decorum.

I slipped from the bed and crept lightly to where Howel lay on his side, his back to me, the blanket tossed across his legs, a pillow tucked beneath his head. As I slowly sank down to lie beside him, I watched his body move with his breathing, and for a moment believed him to be asleep. I gently rested my hand on his arm and tried to peer into his face.

Then he turned, rolling on his back to look at me, his face washed in silver by the moonlight. He was wide awake, returning my gaze intently. I felt giddy with nerves, but determined nonetheless. I leaned forward to kiss him, but suddenly found myself flipped on my back, Howel over me, smiling boyishly.

“Aha,” he said softly. “You think you can ambush a pirate?”

Before I had a chance to answer, his lips were on mine. Finally. Finally. How long had I waited for this moment? How many times had I fantasized about it, sleeping on hard decks of rocking ships amidst terrifying men? Soft kisses became urgent, purposeful. I ran my fingers through his hair as he ran his lips down my throat, his hands working their way up my shift…

He raised his head abruptly, his hands on my thighs, a puzzled look on his face. He lifted the hem of my shift to look at my legs. “Sabrina, what have you done to yourself?”

I squirmed under his disapproving gaze, moving my legs together self-consciously. “I shaved my legs,” I said defensively.

“With what?” he asked. “A cutlass?”

“No,” I snapped. “I used a straight razor. I’m just not used to… In 2009, the razors are so much more… user-friendly.”

He chuckled. “Why did you shave the hair from your legs, for God’s sake?”

I shrugged, embarrassed. “In 2009… men find leg hair on women to be… unattractive.”

He raised his eyebrows, amused. “Is that how it be? How peculiar.”

I giggled. “They actually prefer their women to be hairless — except for their heads.”

“How now?” Howel laughed. “Even there?” He swept the area of my crotch with his hand, over my shift. Oh, my God. I felt dizzy with desire for him.

“Some men, yes,” I said weakly.

“Hmm,” he said, returning to caressing my neck with his mouth, one hand on my thigh, the other pressing me to him. “Seems like… the men of 2009 prefer babes in their beds… not real women… I, for one, like hair on me women… Don’t cut your legs like that, Sabrina…”

Yessir, I thought, my mind in a fog of happiness.

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