ext_292780 ([identity profile] commodore-jln.livejournal.com) wrote in [personal profile] stem_the_tide 2007-08-01 06:34 am (UTC)

Oh. Ohhh. A tongue, then, running along the shell of his ear, and Sparrow's breath so very hot against his skin, and it seems to James that he has turned suddenly entirely to liquid. Every inch of himself is hypersensitised to the touch and sensation of Sparrow's rough clothing, the tiny, tickling brush of his hair against the side of his face, the throbbing, insistent pressure between his legs, and he moans again, this time almost more of a whimper, leaning at once into and away from Sparrow's touch. A hand runs down his chest, brushing little electric sparks of heat as it goes, and his body moves entirely without his permission, rubbing wantonly- and gods, he hates to say it, but that's what it is- against Sparrow, the heat of his own arousal very evident indeed.

The heat twists violently as Sparrow's hand cups him through his breeches, and he fairly cries out, his hips twitching into the touch, wanting more more more-

Wait.

His mind freezes suddenly, though his body does not; Jack Sparrow has his hand on James's prick, and he's straining for it, Sparrow is cupping, massaging, and no. Yes, he's the man's first mate now, yes he's aboard his ship for what he's sure is going to be a very long time, yes he's attractive and yes James wants him beyond all his better sense, but no. He's overwhelmed suddenly by a fear of the force of his own desire, and he fairly leaps back, stumbling and tripping off the bed, staring at Sparrow and blinking hard.

'No,' he mutters, and with some difficulty he straightens, schooling his posture into the ramrod-straight Commodore. He feels utterly ridiculous, with his hair dishevelled and his shirt untucked, and a very obvious erection in his ridiculously tight Naval breeches, but he hastily tucks his hair behind his ears, garnering what dignity he can.

'I'm sorry- I cannot. I mean, no, I- I cannot deny that, ah' he looks down at the prominence in his trousers, then looks up again, cheeks flaming. 'However, regardless of my- I cannot. It would be-'

Would be what? Most improper? He cannot say that; everything about this is improper, and to point it out would surely only spur laughter from Sparrow. He cannot, however, think of a more suitable adjective, so he says nothing, save a rather desperate 'You understand.' It's a question and a plea and an assertion all at once, but he does not know which of these it is foremost. His brain is in too much confusion.

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