She loves touching Max; the way her skin feels warm and silky under the toughened pads of her finger tips and her soft curves that feel exactly right in her hands. Anne loves the way she moves and the pretty sounds that fall generously from her lips, body yielding sweetly under her like every little shift and gasp is an invitation. Even if they ain't fucking, she loves how small Max is; that all of the soft warmth of her body fits so perfectly against her lean muscle and that she kisses her like she's worth savoring and not a woman who's really only good for killing.
Jack kisses her like that, but it ain't the same. Max don't have a reason to do it. Anne didn't try to kiss her first, didn't spend years fighting and killing at her side like she did Jack. Sure, she'd saved her from that fucking tent, gutted Hammund like he'd more than deserved, but she didn't do that for her. It's not even like she was particularly nice to her for all that time. She mistook the hazy wanting for something else - anything else - and it just fed her temper, making her feel constantly guilty for no reason she could figure.
She doesn't know why Max did it the first time, or why she kept at it, kept letting Anne come back to her, but she knows Max wants her. It could just be a whore faking it because that's what they do, but Anne ain't payin' her and she can't see what just splitting her and Jack up is worth. They're a good team, but they ain't worth shit separated, neither of them are really anyone when you take away the other. S'not like Max wants Jack for herself and he's already letting her have forty percent of gross profit from the brothel as the madame. Anne doesn't know how much that is exactly, but it's enough that Max can buy herself prettier dresses and jewelry like she's never had before.
No one but Jack has ever wanted just her before. Max don't want her swords, doesn't ask her to kill for her. She looks at Anne like some kind prize she can't believe she's gotten hold of, tries to take care of her when she allows it. Anne doesn't know what it is they're doing, but she can't stop thinking about Max when she ain't got anything else on her mind and the thoughts are confusing, but mostly they make her feel warm and start a quiet wanting.
They're laying in Max's bed, the sun starting to set outside and the sounds of the brothel gearing up for the night filtering in through the floor and the closed door. Max has been asleep for at least the last hour. Anne knows because she's been focused on nothing but her the whole time. Her chest rhythmically rising and falling at an ever slowing pace until her lips parted just barely and she nestled closer and tucked her head under Anne's chin with a soft sigh.
It's fucking criminal that Max looks the way she does is what it is. Downright devastating with her clever mind and ladylike manner even though she's a whore. And Anne can't help herself from running her fingers through her dark hair, dropping a kiss to the top of her head as she moves to trace idle patterns over her back.
"Ma doux pirate," Max murmurs. Anne feels her smile against her skin before a soft kiss is pressed just below her collarbone. A small hand curls around her hip possessively and Max slides one of her legs between Anne's.
Before she can even make the conscious decision to do it, Anne tips Max's head back and tilts hers down to kiss her. Softly at first, gentle because she's learned Max don't always like starting out as rough as she does with Jack and because she's come to enjoy the slow kisses that gradually grow more desperate. Anne doesn't let this kiss go too far before pulling back, knowing Max expects different. She smirks at the frustrated mutter of French that she can't quite make out.
"Teach me," she says suddenly. Max blinks at her, brow furrowing in confusion. "The French," Anne clarifies. "I like hearing it. Bet I'd like it even better if I knew what it was you were sayin'," her cheeks colour and her gaze slides off to the side. "I know I ain't that smart, but–" she's silenced by Max's hand cupping her cheek, thumb resting on her lips.
"I think you could learn, ma chérie," Max affirms with a gentle smile. "Lesson one," she starts, her smile curling wider, she brushes her thumb across Anne's lips. "Lévres," she says the word slowly.
"Lévres," Anne repeats without any of the finesse of Max's accent, a finger reaching up to touch her lips. Max laughs, but it's a warm, gentle thing.
"You sound like an Englishman," she tells her, still grinning with amusement. "but we shall practice and the sound will come more naturally," she promises. Max kisses her and the sound of her speaking the word for lips fills Anne's mind. Anne lets Max coax her on to her back, the familiar weight of her straddling her waist a welcome sensation as she drags her hands down her sides and is rewarded with one of those soft sounds she enjoys so much.
Max pulls away, teeth tugging lightly at Anne's lower lip, and kisses the curve of her jaw. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear and nips at the shell of it.
"Oreille," she says, lips brushing the outside of Anne's ear as one of her hands slips under her tunic and she trails her nails slowly up her ribs, teasing a feather light touch to the side of her breast.
"Oreille," Anne repeats after swallowing. Her pronunciation still leaves much to be desired, but she's trying to shift to get even a little more contact.
Max moves down her body slightly, laying on Anne's chest and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of her neck. She starts to suck a small mark where her neck curves into shoulder and Anne tilts her head to the side, giving her better access. One of her hands slips down Max's waist to rest at her hip, the other she brings between them to cup one of her breasts, rolling her nipple between the rough pads of her fingers with just enough pressure to get a pretty little whimper and Anne gasps as Max sets just the barest edge of teeth into her skin.
She thinks she hears Max murmur the word for what she can only assume is neck, but the better part of Anne's mind is focused on the fact that Max has eased off of her enough to reach down and press the heel of her hand to her clit. Max doesn't do anything else, just holds her hand there and Anne rolls her hips with a soft moan of satisfaction when she doesn't tease and pull away. Max goes back to kissing her neck, letting Anne writhe underneath her and even though she's got her head turned to the side and she's looking out the window she knows exactly what that smug smile on her face probably looks like about now.
It's gone dark out now. The sky is clear and while she can't see the moon from where she is, stars glitter brightly in the darkness. A thought crosses Anne's mind, one so eloquent she can hardly believe she's thought it and she uses both hands to bring Max's face up to kiss her. She gently nips at Max's lower lip, tasting her leisurely when she opens to her. Max lets her roll them so its her back on the sheets and Anne above her and Christ but Anne doesn't think she'll ever get tired of the sight of her laid out beneath her. She moves down to kiss the space between her breasts where usually some sparkling pendant sits, drawing her attention away from everything else even in the middle of a conversation.
"What're the stars called?" she asks, laying another kiss a bit lower and scraping her teeth a few inches below that until her mouth is just over Max's navel.
"Étoile," she raises up on her elbows to look down at Anne. "Why?" there's no accusation or judgment in the question, just honest curiosity.
Anne rests her head on Max's stomach, fingers drawing curving patterns over the outsides of her thighs, occasionally dipping up to the hollows of her hips.
"When we're at sea an' a storm blows us off course the navigator uses 'em to figure out where we are," she explains without further context. "Ma étoile," she murmurs, feeling her cheeks heat. She bites her lip and can't look at Max, can't believe she's said anything of the sort and is terrified Max is going to make her explain it further.
But she doesn't, of course she doesn't. Because Max always seems to understand what she means even if she doesn't so much as say a single word, always seems to know exactly how to respond so that Anne never feels bad about what she wants just because it's confusing for her. She sits up, surprisingly strong as she moves Anne with her and draws her into her arms, whispering into her hair and holding her close. It takes Anne several moments to realize she's speaking in English, that she can understand what she's saying and she buries her face in the side of Max's neck and hugs her tightly, closing her eyes against the sensation of tears threatening to start, though she couldn't have said why.
She loves touching Max; the way she don't let her feel like it's wrong and that she should think less of herself for wanting to. Anne loves the way it ain't just about the fucking, that for her Max ain't a whore and for Max she ain't a killer.