sexy sextant lesson ahead...
He speaks of sailor's magic, his words rumbling lightly against her throat, his hand guiding her fingertips around the handle with a firm grip. Cold steel meets warm skin as the slight lift of her arm allows his hook access to her waist, the hem of her sweater short and the dip of her jeans low. "Steady, Swan," he whispers as he loosens his fingers, leaving her to hold the ancient instrument on her own as he nods toward the horizon.
She shivers as he speaks of angles, his hand tracing hers from the curve of her elbow to the dip of her shoulder, the catch of his rings against her skin the sweetest of torture. Retaliation is swift, his gasp as she bends into him like a victory, arousal a game best played by two. "Tsk, tsk," he says, hook and hand working in tandem, her hips now immobile as the distance is closed. The wood of the helm now cradles her breasts as she grips the wheel with one hand, his sextant precariously balanced in the other.
He navigates her body as well as the stars, his voice alone tightening her strings as his fingertips play songs along her skin. Setting the brass down on the wood, her other hand takes hold of the wheel, bracing for his victory, welcoming it in full. His hand finds her breast, cupping and caressing as he explains the importance of "accuracy and precision", the curve of his hook finding such perfection applying gentle pressure between her legs.
Leaning in, she traps his arm against the mast, the tension building with each rock of her hips against his steel. His instructions die off as his fingers move to her jeans, deftly popping the button as his lips find her neck, the hot heat of his mouth adding to the warmth aching for his touch. Pressing her backside against his hardening length, she releases his hook as the pads of his fingers being to strum, her fingernails adding gauges to those already adorning the enchanted wood.
His commands are that of her Captain, leaving tingles as they're mouthed roughly into the back of her neck. Each word spoken with a flick of his thumb and the press of his palm, demanding she "let go" and "come for me", both orders she follows without reluctance. Collapsing against the mast as he continues to stroke, she releases one final gasp as another coil unfurls, his victorious chuckle buried against her sweat slicked throat. He mumbles about her "being a quick study" and an "excellent first mate", unknowing that she's merely summoning the energy to turn the tables and set out on a journey all her own.