James groans to himself, running a finger over the brow of his nose and up through the crease in the centre of his forehead. God, he wants this, can't Sparrow see it? But he can't allow it, not... well, not yet. At least. He isn't sure what the qualifier is for when, but it's not now. There is one, maybe two reasons to do this with Sparrow, and though they are both eloquent and persuasive, there are millions why he shouldn't, and he feels positively flooded with them at the moment. He looks somewhat guiltily at Sparrow.

His entire body is still thrumming with heat and lust, and he looks pointedly away from the body on the bed, willing his erection to go away. Gradually, it obeys, at least partly, and he is left merely in a decidedly uncomfortable sweat, strangely cold in the hot Caribbean air. He gives a pained smile that's more of a grimace at Sparrow's half-hearted jibe, and pulls a chair to himself, picking up the first item to come to hand which might be a distraction.

Strangely enough, it's the little grey book of Italian that Sparrow had offered him earlier, and he blinks at it bemusedly before opening it up. It's no less difficult than it was before, but he struggles gamely through about a page and a half before he closes it with a snap and looks back at the pirate.

'I-' he begins, but what is there to say? 'I'm sorry,' he settles with, and he truly is, though he's unsure as to whether Sparrow will believe it or not.

'Perhaps,' he offers tentatively, suddenly recalling what they had been talking about before they had tumbled into Sparrow's bed, 'the ship's articles might be... in the offing now. I must sign, after all, if I am to be the chief mate.'