There had been writhing.
La Martinique, the hour was late, and a soft yellow glow permeated the beach, torches stuck about the scene. They lay together on the beach, a bottle of wine lying between them, glasses to their sides. Empty. She was wearing trousers. Jack liked that immensely. Her shoulders were bare and smooth and tan, and her skin shimmered in the light.
Angelica gazed up at him from under dark lashes, her lips parted slightly, her pulse drumming. He watched her back, just as intensely. She was gorgeous and he couldn't contain his desire for her. They said nothing. For once, he knew, he didn't need to speak.
They surged towards each other, his lips attacking hers with a fierce unrelenting sort of passion, which she returned just as furiously. Their tongues danced, and his hands roamed down her shoulders, encircling her back, caressing the smooth skin. Her hands tangled into his hair, and she moved on, teeth scraping at his jawline, down his throat. She had learned much in their time apart, about the ways of love. But what she didn't know, he found she made up for in natural talent.
Angelica was aggressive. Unafraid to meet his passion with her own. It was the Latin blood. He decided then and there that he really, really liked the Latin blood.
The torches flickered and burnt down, but they lay awake well into the night, and then the morn, their moans stifled against the sound of the sea, waves crashing onto the shore, governed by the moon, full and bright above them.
La Martinique. Where he left her again.
San Dominique. It was there he regretted having taught her how to use a sword. That was how they had ended up on that beach together the last time. Writhing.
There was writhing at San Dominique too. Not quite as incessant, but it still classified as writhing. It was there that she had left him, but not before trying to kill him. She would never admit it, but she had been unable to do it. Jack had been ravishing her thoroughly - he knew when they were faking - and in the midst of their passion Angelica had tried to kill him.
She had had her arms at her sides, but lifted them to his head, so unaware. Had she truly hated him, he would have been dead then and there.
It was later that he found the knife.
Afterwards, she had left.
Only then did he realize that she had loved him.
Esmeralda stirred against his chest, slender hand brushing his stomach. Blast and damn, it tickled, and he fought the ridiculous urge to giggle. She would make fun of him if he did. Esmeralda the playful yet dangerous and familiar lover.
Angelica, the passionate and mysterious, but distant lover.
They both had Spanish blood; fire ran through their veins.
Three days.
He'd left her there three days ago.
He wanted his ship.
"Jack, why do you not sleep? Not yet sated, hmmm?", she nuzzled closer, and he was reminded of the times before the Wench had become his beloved Pearl.
"What? No! it's just…got things on me mind luv," he murmured absently, stroking her silken hair now.
"You're ship, sí?"
"Sí,"
"You must only go back to the Rumrunner's island. You know this. She will still be there. Your conscience is not clear, Jack, my love,"
"Bah, my consciences is just fine thanks, I just don't know any other way of getting 'er outtuv that blasted bottle,"
"You will find a way. You always do. Perhaps you should call an old debt? The Captain of the Dutchman must know of eldritch things. Perhaps he can help you, if you are not keen on facing your Spanish lady's wrath, "
"Ha. Very funny," he looked scathingly at her, but with jest in his eyes.
Esmeralda reached up a hand and tugged the end of his braided beard. "Now go to sleep, or we will have no fun tomorrow," she scolded him playfully.
"Ta, luv. Sleep it is,"
He hoped to the gods that he wouldn't dream of Angelica. With his luck, they'd be nightmares.