James's eyes flutter shut as Sparrow's body presses against his, his voice velvet-rough in his ears. He's pushing him backwards, forcing back towards- towards what? The bed, that sumptous confection of silk pillows and thick comforters. The thought sends a thrill through him, and he bites at his lower lip, allowing Jack to walk him back, back, back.
When his knees hit the edge of the bed, they almost buckle, but he holds himself firm and instead grins at Jack. 'It would indeed seem to be the opportune moment,' he murmurs. His voice has gone down almost an octave; it's rougher and throatier than normal, and he lets out a little exhale at the look on Sparrow's face upon hearing his voice.
'And your compass,' he continues, 'would certainly seem to be entirely correct on this point, at the very least.'
The hand holding the compass relinquishes its grip and instead traces a finger up Jack's arm, brushing a teasing, featherlight touch before clasping like a vise just above Sparrow's hand. He pulls toward himself, ever so slightly, an invitation for Sparrow to keep on pushing.
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When his knees hit the edge of the bed, they almost buckle, but he holds himself firm and instead grins at Jack. 'It would indeed seem to be the opportune moment,' he murmurs. His voice has gone down almost an octave; it's rougher and throatier than normal, and he lets out a little exhale at the look on Sparrow's face upon hearing his voice.
'And your compass,' he continues, 'would certainly seem to be entirely correct on this point, at the very least.'
The hand holding the compass relinquishes its grip and instead traces a finger up Jack's arm, brushing a teasing, featherlight touch before clasping like a vise just above Sparrow's hand. He pulls toward himself, ever so slightly, an invitation for Sparrow to keep on pushing.