This Tainted Love

by DarkObsessions

SPOILERS! I found the series' conclusion to the Vane/Eleanor arc to be anticlimactic and full of loose ends, so this is a blatant fix-it fic. After Eleanor tells Woodes that she visited Vane in jail, she returns to his cell later that night. Things do not go as planned.

15. Chapter 15

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

AN: Surprise, I'm not dead! I know, I know; FOUR MONTHS?! Yeah, I suck. Pretty sure this is the longest and most painful delay yet... Sorry! But omg, you guys, the response for the last chapter was phenomenal! Reviews are sustenance & I'll admit I was dying a little, so thank you! You guys are awesome & I swear I'm still not done with this story! You really kicked up my spirits and sent me into this next chapter with more enthusiasm & incentive than I've had for writing in a while. So now I present to you the fruit of your labors: An extra long chapter with loads of smut! XD It doubles as a huge thank you & as compensation for my terrible delay. Enjoy & keep letting me know what you think!

DEFINITIONS:
Besotted: Intoxicated; Infatuated; Obsessed. Akin to the phrase Lovesick.

Prostration: Extreme mental or emotional depression or dejection

Tacit: Understood without being openly expressed; implied. Silent/Unspoken awareness.
Pandora's Box: Pandora's box is an artifact in Greek mythology, taken from the myth of Pandora's creation in Hesiod's Works and Days. The box was said to contain all the evils of the world. Pandora opened the box out of curiosity, unwittingly unleashing those evils upon the world. By the time she managed to finally get the box closed again, only Hope was left trapped in the bottom of the box.
Burgeoning: To grow or develop quickly

Indurated: To make hard; harden

Equanimity: Mental or emotional stability/composure, especially under tension or strain
Palaver: Conference/discussion; long parlay with profuse and idle talk

Perturbation: Cause of mental disquiet, disturbance or irritation
Immedicable: Something that cannot be cured, remedied or corrected

masochistic: Gratified by pain, degradation, deprivation, etc., inflicted upon oneself either by one's own hand or the hand of others.

Rapaciously: Greedy; predatory; extortionate

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He should never have let her get so close. He'd given up too much ground, offered up far more than he'd ever intended. He could practically feel her grip round his neck tightening. She was squeezing the air from his lungs, stealing his breath and replacing it with her own. She was peeling back his skin, clearing up space so she could crawl inside and spread her poison.

This was how it always went. He'd never managed to keep free of her for very long. He should have known. He should have put a stop to all of this before this destructive cycle could repeat itself.

But even when the opportunity had presented itself, his mind screaming that she was too close and that her proximity left him vulnerable, he'd allowed her to remain where she sat pressed against him. It was a mistake. He'd known it was even as he'd done it, but that hadn't been enough to stop to it. He hadn't pushed her away. He'd given her an inch, and she'd taken a Goddamned mile. Now she had a foothold. A precarious foothold, but a foothold nonetheless.

It was stupid and weak. She'd made him stupid and weak. Just as she always had.

It was near nauseating to realize that despite all his efforts to remain unmoved, she'd still managed to chip away at all his hard earned resolve. All she'd needed to do was crack a little, show him a glimpse of the desperate and devastated woman he knew she hid beneath the surface, and he'd rolled over like a cheap whore. She may as well have just held out her hands expectantly, because he'd willfully handed her a weapon. Though metaphorical in nature, that weapon held dangerous potential. He knew all too well she'd find a way to have it carve the very heart from his chest.

It wasn't that he thought there had been any actual malicious intent on her part. Not in those moments, anyway. He understood that the emotionality of her prostration had been genuine, she'd loved Scott and his loss had been a grievous blow. But that knowledge only made it all the worse, her naked vulnerability in those moments had all but gutted him.

Quite frankly, it pissed him off that her distress had bothered him at all.

He shouldn't have felt inclined to comfort her in the first place. But as was so often the case in his dealings with Eleanor, his rationality had all but taken flight with the very sight of her. It wouldn't be seen of heard from again until she'd been properly removed from his proximity.

Fucking ridiculous.

She'd needed him to offer what she'd never openly ask for. And being the besotted moron that he was, he'd felt foolishly inclined to supply her with it. When he'd seen her standing on that beach, he'd acted without fully considering the consequence. He'd offered her silence and a flask and the implicit understanding that words weren't required. But he hadn't been aiming to position himself as her shoulder to cry on. There was an tacit implication of trust and intimacy in such positions of consolation, and he'd no desire to regress into anything of the sort.

Fucking her was one thing, and sleeping beside had become a necessary evil, but holding her while she mourned the loss of her surrogate father was something else entirely.

And yet even knowing this, he still hadn't pulled from her. He'd made a halfhearted attempt, sure, but ultimately he'd knuckled under. She'd croaked out a single desperate plea, only two simple words. They hadn't even been anything profound. It was just: "Don't... Please."

And he hadn't. Because Goddamn her, he understood.

He understood exactly what that moment had meant. She'd needed him to stay where he was. And for as much as she'd deserved his refusal, he hadn't had the heart to kick her while she was already so clearly laid up and bleeding. Though God only knew why. It wasn't as if she wouldn't have deserved it if he had denied her.

But that was how it had always been with Eleanor. With her he'd always found himself irrationally moved by whatever passion consumed her in the moment. Joy, pain, rage, lust; it didn't matter. The intensity with which she experienced emotion was bewitching. Her fervor was infectious, often inexplicably poignant and stirring. She roused to life in him things that, before her, he'd simply assumed were long dead or just entirely non-existent.

She made him feel alive, made him want things a man in his position could not afford to want. Women in general were complicated creatures in and of themselves, but this woman gave new meaning to the statement. Regrettably, he suspected that was half the reason he'd fallen so hard for her.

Christ, he was sick.

What kind of idiot willingly submerged himself into that sort of emotional chaos? Even knowing that doing so was essentially prying open Pandora's Box, he'd still dove right in.

He was defective, completely fucking mental. It was the only viable explanation. Either that, or he was just a straight up masochist. He knew she was a risk. He knew she was dangerous and he always had. But he'd always wanted her anyway. If he was being perfectly honest, a part of him still did.

That was precisely the problem.

She was like a drug, blithely showing him new and incredible heights only to batter him bloody with the comedown. It was always one hell of a crash and a nearly impossible detox, but he was an addict. He'd said it before, she'd been his drug of choice for almost as long as he could remember. He'd kicked the habit a few times, sure, but never for very long. He'd fallen off the wagon and into her arms more times than he could count. He could admit that, but this time was supposed to have been different. He'd convinced himself that this time she'd gone too far and that there was no going back. He'd never let her back in, he couldn't. Not without getting himself killed.

Yet here he was, splaying himself open for her again. He could feel it; his tenuous grip on control slipping idly through grasping fingers. He could practically taste the defeat. She was slithering past his defenses and into his bloodstream, and it seemed there was little to be done about it.

He was starting to think he couldn't stop it, that she was getting back inside whether he liked it or not.

But that didn't mean he was willing to go down without a fight. Even if a backslide was inevitable and he could feel her coursing through his veins, he wouldn't make this easy on her. Perhaps he might be able slow the process, limit their interaction to the bare minimum necessity. Surely less exposure would, at the very least, hinder his decent into this self-deprecating madness.

He might not be able to talk himself out of love with her, but he sure as hell wouldn't submit to it laying down. He'd given her enough of himself already. If she wanted what was left, she'd damn well have to pry it from his cold, dead fingers.

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He'd been ignoring her for days now, avoiding her when he could and only bothering to speak to her when communication was absolutely essential. Though even then, his responses generally ranged from affirmative grunts and negatory growls to simple one liners spoken only out of necessity. It was as though he'd perceived her to have committed some sort of heinous crime, an unforgivable atrocity for which he had deemed himself worthy of administering this juvenile punishment.

And she was quickly loosing patience.

The stretching silences and short winded conversations were less than stimulating, and quite honestly a little painful. Coupled with the fairly frequent glaring and occasionally snide comments she'd been enduring, it was getting to be a little much.

It wasn't as though she considered herself innocent. She had indeed committed her fair share of atrocities. However, none of these slights had taken place overly recently. At least not recently enough to warrant his sudden decent into relative mutism.

While she'd never have described him as exuberant or chatty to begin with, he certainly hadn't been this reticently glaring time bomb. Well, at least not to such an extent as this. If he'd something to say, then he should just bloody say it. Like he usually did. But if he was too stubborn to bother removing whatever had gotten so stuck up in his craw, then she'd happily step in and tear it out herself.

Anything to break the monotony.

She was itching for something beyond this endless planning and skulking about anyhow. She'd had enough of all this closemouthed bullshit. Who had the patience for all this passive aggressive nonsense? And since when did Charles bother with anything passive-aggressive? He was generally far more inclined towards the loud, outward sort of aggression. Clean. Simple.

This wasn't like him. He was usually more than happy to tell her where she could stuff it. And perhaps that was what was really bothering her; the fact that he hadn't just lain into her like she knew he wanted to. She could guess why he was so angry. He didn't like the way things had played out down by the beach.

She could sympathize with that, because neither did she. Her little meltdown had been emotionally exorbitant and embarrassing.

She understood that her demand had cost him something too, something that he hadn't been willing to offer her just yet, if even ever again. He might not have been willing to coddle her by delivering soothing reassurances and gentle touches, but that was good. She wouldn't have allowed herself to be cosseted in such a way anyway. The point was that, in his own way, he'd still made a genuine effort to console her. He'd known that words were neither important nor necessary, and may well have made things worse. He'd offered drink, the simple comfort of his presence and the amenity of an understanding silence. Which was far better than what they both knew she'd earned.

She loved him all the more for that.

Looking back, she considered that had that drink and silence been the end of it, it might have been enough. Had that quiet companionship not felt so horridly comfortable and achingly familiar, she might have managed to better pull herself together. But that comfort had fractured the delicate semblance of control she'd been clinging to and to her horror, she'd felt herself unraveling. It was all she could do not to dissolve into a blubbering mess. So suddenly she was pressed against the side of him, desperate to hold on to those last tattered pieces of composure.

She hadn't needed him to speak. She hadn't required him to hold her or stroke her hair. She'd only needed him to stay right where he was, just for a moment. Just until she felt like she could breathe again. He was an anchor of sorts, her port in the storm. He always had been, even when neither of them had wanted him to be. Even when she'd thrashed against the notion, fighting against it tooth and nail.

But for all her rabid brawling, she hadn't changed a thing. Apparently, old habits died hard.

For as soon as he'd tried to pull away, a part of her had irrationally panicked. It was silly and childish and she knew it, but for whatever reason, she couldn't bear the thought of allowing the tears to start. The heat of his body next to hers had been the only thing holding her together. If he'd moved, she was sure the loss of contact would've been her undoing. She knew those tears would've been justified, understandable even, given who she'd just learned she lost.

However, she'd been almost certain that if she started, she might never stop.

Logically, she knew such a fear to be ridiculous. She'd survive Scott's death. She'd come through it on the other side, just like she always did. But that logic hadn't been enough to quell the inner storm. And so, in a moment's weakness, she'd demanded far more from him than she knew he was willing to give.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she'd known she was pushing too hard, asking for too much, but she'd pressed on all the same. She'd demanded that he stay.

And with those two words, she'd snatched from him any hope of denying her. Though admittedly, she hadn't meant for those words to sound half as desperate, broken and pathetic as they had. That bit was unexpected, mortifying and absolutely loathsome. It had almost been enough to make her pull away, make her say something biting or overly nonchalant just to counteract the near crippling vulnerability that accompanied that level of emotional exposure.

But as he sat stiffly clutching at her wrist, so quiet and unmoving, it became clear he'd no intention of leaving. At least not right then and there. So as the seconds stretched into minutes and the tenuous silence shifted into a more relaxed one, relief flooded through her veins and her anxious misery quieted into something more manageable.

Feeling somewhat disproportionately grateful, she'd thanked him and he'd acknowledged her gratitude in his usual gruff, non-verbal way. So why couldn't that just be the end of it? Why the hell was he now wasting both their time behaving like a disgruntled child?

Today, just as he'd been doing for the last few days, he was avoiding her like the Goddamned plague. How helpful was that? How were they supposed to get anything done? They were sharing a twelve by fifteen room together, but for how often he was actually there one wouldn't have known it.

Currently he was out on a supposed patrol. Not that they needed him on those runs, they had more than enough men to tend such things. But he'd taken to going out with the men all the same. She suspected he did it more to get away from her than for anything else, but perhaps that was simply her irritation talking. It was entirely possible he was just getting antsy with all the planning and lack of action. She knew keeping busy made him feel more useful, productive.

She could certainly relate to that. She was going fucking stir crazy in this stuffy, little hut.

Restlessly mulling over the paperwork she'd been given, she sat bowed over the crude but sensibly crafted table in their hut. If she had to sit here tasked with administrative work, she supposed she should at least be grateful she got to do it in a fresh set of clothing, even if they were a touch too large.

After parading around for days in the same two bedraggled skirts she'd brought with her, she'd been more than happy to accept the ill-fitting but far more practical outfit. The large linen blouse was a faded bluish-grey and the dark canvas breeches were more than a little worn, but she could hardly be bothered to care. She was simply glad to be rid of the hindrance of that skirt and corset. She never had cared for the cramped restrictions of female attire. It was why, whenever she thought she could get away with it, she'd favored buttoned blouses over corsets and simple full skirts over those ridiculous hooped monstrosities. When she did bother to don a corset, it was generally clasped rather than laced. And on the odd occasion it actually did lace, it usually wasn't pulled half as tight as it technically should have been. Honestly, she only ever bothered with them at all because she liked highlighting the fact that she was indeed a woman in a position of authority. But seeing as how said position of authority had all but evaporated, she didn't see the point in suffering the discomfort.

Unfortunately, despite the much appreciated change of clothing, she felt no more settled than she had prior. She was still itchy with agitation, a crawling impatience and burning irascibility. She wasn't a prisoner per se, but by God it sure as fuck felt that way. After her little beach excursion, Lou had suddenly seemed never to be too far away. The cur was constantly meandering around outside her door like some kind of nosy little watchdog. She had the sneaking suspicion that he'd been assigned to keep tabs on her. Likely by her dear, ever crotchety Captain Vane.

The contemptuous ass.

With a huff, she returned her attention to the papers sprawled across the surface of the table before her. A few hours earlier she'd been assigned the task of going over Charles' scribbled blueprints of the fort's tunnel system, the idea being that there might be something there they could take advantage of. Despite the fact that she suspected a good deal of the reason she'd been given this task was because it was busywork, she'd still agreed to look it over. She'd done so only because having played in those tunnels as a child, she knew them like the back of her hand. It made sense for her to make sure nothing had gone unnoticed or forgotten.

Unfortunately, that didn't make the task any less tedious. It didn't stave off her restlessness nor ease the growing sense of irritation and impatience with her situation and Charles' behaviour. If anything, it only served to keep her hands busy while she fantasized about letting her temper fly the moment he waltzed back through that door.

So she simply stewed, haughtily adding in hidden passages he'd overlooked and searching for ones he might have forgotten or mislabeled. Though admittedly and much to her chagrin, he'd done a fairly decent job of documenting it all. He must have started committing those tunnels to memory the moment he'd taken control of the fort, carefully cataloging all their secrets for future use. Because despite the hastily scribbled hand with which the plans were drawn, they were still meticulous and surprisingly well detailed, too detailed to be something he just happened to remember and haphazardly jot down. It was clear he'd studied them rather closely in the time he'd spent there.

With an irritated sigh, she reflected that he always had been far more clever and calculated than he bothered to let on. She supposed it was far easier to play the impulsive, single minded brute and reap the benefits of being underestimated than it was to show your hand and allow people the chance to become suspicious. Though admittedly, the role suited him as well as it did only because he truly did embody many of the traits associated with it. He really was an impulsive, single minded brute. But the catch was that he was also shrewd, dogged and resourceful. Sure, he was wasn't above using brute force and violence to get what he wanted, he even preferred it that way most of the time. But he was also capable of utilizing approaches of a more subtle and tactical nature.

He was multifaceted.

It was a fact that had often irritated her as much as it impressed her. She'd even learned a thing or two from him; like the occasional value of allowing testosterone addled minds to perceive her as less than what she was. It was a subtle but effective manipulation tactic that had often worked in her favor.

But right now, none of that really mattered. Right now, she was far too concentrated on the burgeoning fury unfurling in the pit of her stomach. All this prolonged semi-confinement and distant, closemouthed foolishness had to end. They were never going to get anything accomplished if he kept treating her like she was Judas incarnated.

Just because they'd shared a few brief moments of understanding down on that beach did not mean she was gunning for shared secrets and maudlin heart to hearts. So he could just relax. She understood he was uncomfortable with the fact that he'd allowed those moments to occur in the first place and that their relationship was strained at best.

But enough was enough.

He wanted to keep hating her? Fine, that was a crux she'd been expecting to have to bear anyway. But the least he could do was look her in the face and tell her as much. She'd rather he fume and yell and curse at her than subject her to this painfully fraudulent silence. It was somehow worse, somehow so much more impersonal, hurtful and insulting.

She needed him to react. To give her something, anything.

He was making her insane. She spent half her time drowning in guilt, and the other half blistering with fury. She closed her eyes, setting down the pen as a wave of sorrow bubbled up to mingle with the rage that rolled beneath her skin. She longed for the days when after a quarrel she could simply slide into the space beside him and burrow close, certain that he understood that tenderness to be her version of apology. But her sins had grown too great, her past betrayals too destructive and untenable to warrant such easy forgiveness. She'd tainted things, buried within him a blade she wasn't certain she'd ever be able to remove.

Christ, who was she kidding? She probably deserved this.

With a tired and frustrated huff, she decided a drink was in order. Shoving her chair back from the table, she rose to rummage around in the trunk by the bed for the rum she was almost certain it contained. After a few unfruitful moments and a considerable number of muted curses, she emerged with prize in hand. Not bothering to hunt down a cup, she wrenched the cork from it's resting place and tossed back a healthy swig straight from the bottle.

She was still antsy and frustrated, but the brunt of her temper had been somewhat impaired by the weight of her regrets. She stood by the opinion that his behaviour was childish and unhelpful, but she couldn't deny that there was a certain degree of cause for it. She shouldn't have pushed him on the beach. He'd been sitting with her already and that should have been enough. But she'd pushed for more, just like she always did. The fact that she'd done so in a moment of utter emotional frailty only made things worse.

With a growl of self disgust, she threw back another shot of the foul smelling alcohol, relishing the burn as it slid down her esophagus. Did he really have to keep punishing her for that embarrassing display? It wasn't as if it had been entirely intentional, she'd barely been holding herself together for Christ sake. Among her many sins, there were certainly ones more deserving of punishment than this paltry fuck up. For this particular slight, hadn't that horrid display of emotional infirmity been punishment enough for the both of them?

It sure a hell felt like it.

As if in response to her questioning, the door swung open with a rather resounding bang. Her eyes snapped up to find Charles – still sullen and surly – tramping petulantly through the door and into the room. He barely spared her a glance as he moved toward the trunk she'd been digging through only minutes prior. Jerking it open, he began ransacking its contents in search of something.

She watched with mild irritation as he continued hunting through the trunk – seemingly without any progress if his increasingly frustrated demeanor was any indication. After observing the mess he was making for a few moments longer, she sighed.

"Just what is it you're looking for?" She asked brusquely.

He paused, placing his hands on the edges of the open trunk. Without bothering to turn around, he ground out, "Rum."

Her eyes narrowed in aggravation. "You mean other than the one in my hands?"

He sent her a scathing look over his right shoulder before turning back to the trunk. "Yes."

Petulant child.

She rolled her eyes, an exasperated growl tumbling from her lips as she stood and strode towards him. He turned around at the sound of her approach with his eyes narrowed suspiciously, as though he suspected there was a good chance she was up to something underhanded.

Undeterred, she thrust the bottle out in his direction, holding it out in front of her for him to take. When he only continued to glare at her, she resisted the urge to scream. Hoping the movement would both highlight the stupidity of his behaviour and adequately convey her impatience with the whole matter, she gave the bottle a jerkily coaxing shake in his direction.

He merely cast that irascible gaze from her face to the bottle and back again. Aside from the distasteful look in his eyes, the rest of his face remained almost entirely impassive. It was infuriating.

Fine. Two could play that game.

"What, concerned I might be trying to poison you?" She quipped with sneering sarcasm. "Tell me, how exactly would I benefit from that, hm?" She knew that wasn't why he'd refused, he was just being stubborn and disagreeable. But the implication that he feared her wily ways would piss him off, and right now that suited her just fine. She'd rather get him riled up and angry than sit a moment longer in this stifling, acerbic quiet.

His eyes narrowed even further at her bating. She watched his jaw tighten tellingly just a second before his hand shot out towards her. He snatched the bottle from her hand and attempted to move past her, but she wasn't having it.

"Christ, Charles! What is it?!" She snapped, stepping into his path and effectively blocking his most direct route of escape.

The look he was giving her darkened, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he studied her. "Move." He growled.

"No." She hissed defiantly.

He stepped towards her, towering over her in a blatant attempt to appear threatening. "Move, or I'll make you move." He breathed menacingly.

At this she lifted her chin, her eyes screaming with brazen audacity as she remained markedly unfazed by his threat. "No. Talk to me."

Something dangerous flashed behind his eyes just a heartbeat before he shifted into motion. She barely had time to react before her feet were leaving the ground. She let out a remarkably unladylike shriek as he hoisted her up and over his shoulder. Instantly she began struggling and spewing curses, demanding her set her down and stop behaving like a boar. Who the hell did he think he was? What the fuck did he think he was doing? And so on and so on.

No one could say he hadn't warned her. He'd been very clear; move or get moved. It was her decision. He should have figured she'd choose the most adversarial option available. She always did. That bullheaded woman refused to do anything the easy way. If there was, at all, any possible way to make things more difficult, Eleanor Guthrie would find it.

Fucking women.

Fueled by shock and outraged by the audacity of his display, she continued to thrash and blaspheme, all the while scrambling for some kind of purchase. The angle was awkward, but she managed to twist her arm back and get hold of his hair. The sudden, hard yank of her arm threw him slightly off balance and forced him to readjust his grip but it didn't deter him overly much. When she finally managed to land a decently solid blow to the middle of his spine with her elbow, he let out a growl of annoyance and bowed slightly with the impact. But much to her dismay, he still seemed – for the most part – wholly unaffected by her struggles. He continued carting her the rest of the way across the room as though she were little more than a particularly unruly sack of potatoes.

It was downright insulting, really. So, with a sound caught somewhere between a battle cry and wounded animal, she brought her knee up. Hard.

As her knee made a solid connection with his upper stomach, she was rewarded with the satisfying sound of air leaving his lungs, a distinctly audible 'omph' that felt insanely gratifying. Unfortunately, she hardly had time to revel in her triumph before she was flung backwards, landing hard and rather unceremoniously on their ramshackle excuse for a bed. Hardly finished and assuming he was about to try to leave, she scrambled upright, fully prepared to stop him by whatever means necessary.

If she'd stopped to consider how ridiculous that sounded, she might have been more inclined toward a more civil resolution. However, riding that rush of adrenaline and indignant animosity, she hardly noticed the absurdity of it all. He'd poured fuel all over the fire and lit a match. Now she was more than happy to make sure he caught some of the flame.

At this point she'd let them both burn. She was too keyed up to care.

He'd started to turn away from her towards the door when she launched out her arm to catch his sleeve. He rounded on her instinctively, immediately attempting to shove her off. But as she toppled back toward the mattress she flung her legs out, wielding those flailing limbs like long, boney weapons. In an attempt to still her thrashing and avoid her landing a blow to his more sensitive bits, he was forced to follow her down onto the bed, pin her wriggling form with his own.

This was absolutely not how he'd intended his evening to go. All he'd been trying to do was distance himself, take a much needed breather from her disturbingly heady presence. And yet somehow he'd ended up here. Pinning her to the mattress.

Someone up there must really hate him.

He held her down for another minute or so, eying her with a somewhat bewildered and exasperated expression as she squirmed and seethed beneath him. It wasn't necessarily that he'd assumed she'd go quietly. He'd known she wouldn't, it wasn't her nature. He'd expected her to fight and she had. However, he hadn't thought it'd be this difficult. He hadn't expected to have to wrestle her to the bed just to keep her from slapping the shit out of him. He'd assumed that subduing her would be relatively simple. After all, he had nearly fifty pounds on her and at least five inches in height.

It should have been easy.

Then again, there was very little about this infuriating woman that had ever been easy. He should have known this wouldn't be any different. The feral little shrew had actually managed to land a few decent blows before he'd finally gotten her subdued and he was admittedly half inclined to slap her back. But now that she'd already been restrained, it seemed somewhat ineffectual. So he settled for glaring daggers at her instead.

If only looks could kill.

When she finally stopped thrashing about and spitting profanities, he couldn't help but wonder if it was because she'd seen the futility in continuing or if she was simply anticipating the possibility of an opportunity to strike out with more efficiency. Weary of getting socked again, he maintained his grip on her wrists, keeping them pinned by either side of her head as he studied her. She was panting, her face flushed and chest heaving with the exertion of it all. And even as the contrary little witch glared up at him, the familiar intimacy of their positioning was not lost on him. He had no intention of acting on the physical or emotional response the contact evoked, but he was aware of the presence of that knee-jerk pulsation nonetheless.

"Are you finished?" He growled down at her with the most scolding and borderline sarcastic tone he could manage.

Oh, what she wouldn't give to wipe that look of his face. The arrogant ass.

Utterly heedless of her less than invulnerable position, she snapped, "That depends. Are you going to tell me what's crawled up your ass?" Despite the fact that she knew full well that the origins of his peturbation resided with what had happened on the beach, she was mad enough to want to make him say it.

They always had been rather good at rubbing salt in each other's wounds.

He let loose an irritated snarl, his discomfort with her line of questioning urging him to lash out. "What difference does that make now, Eleanor? What good might heartfelt palavers do us now, hm? Is it going to change things? Will it absolve you of your sins? Me of mine?"

For a split second she looked startled, almost as though he'd landed that reciprocal slap after all. For a brief moment the air stood stagnant between them while she swallowed down the emotion his statement had conjured and schooled her features into something more neutral. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet but strong and steady. "No. But I'd like to have it anyway..."

The moment he'd snarled those questions, the mood had changed. The interaction no longer felt fueled by fury and indignation. Those emotions were still present but they'd been dampened somehow, taking the backseat to a discussion far too long in the making. Things had taken a more candid and personal turn and now that they had, neither one of them seemed entirely sure of the footing.

He peered down at her through weary and suspicious eyes. "Why?" He asked simply.

Did he really have to ask? Was it not clear that she was drowning? That she felt near suffocated, crushed under the weight of all the guilt, pain and countless regrets? She knew he was aware she preferred anger over the perceptibly weaker emotions and often favored lashing out over wallowing in her own self pity. She knew this because he'd spitefully pointed it out to her more than once over the years, and it had pissed her off every time. Mostly because she knew he was right.

So why the hell couldn't he put two and two together now, when she actually needed him to?

She stared up at him, determinedly trying to read past the anger and suspicion in search of something even remotely receptive to what she knew needed to be said. "Because I need you to understand." She declared with hard and quiet inflection.

The scrutiny of his gaze only intensified. "Understand what, exactly?"

She took a slow and steady breath, willing herself to remain calm despite the both literal and figurative vulnerability of her position. She wasn't quite certain how she was going to go about getting her point across, but it seemed too late to turn back now. "I'm in this, Charles. I'm really in it. I've worked too hard and lost too much to settle for anything less. I – "

"Everything you lost, you lost due to misplaced hubris and blind ambition." He hissed into her face. "You paved the way to your own destruction as surely as you did mine."

Her eyes flashed at that, a familiar anger trickling back into her gaze. "You think I don't know that?" She snapped. "That I don't have regrets?"

"I think you realized the futility of aligning yourself with the English and went looking for the next best thing. I think you're here because you're out of options that don't involve grovelling or conceding what little power you perceive yourself to have left, and you figure I'm the most convenient avenue towards reclaiming some semblance of what you've lost." He seethed.

She would have preferred he deliver a fist to her gut, it would have hurt less. But she wasn't about to tell him that. Instead, her lips twisted up into a snarl. "Fuck you, Charles."

He scoffed, releasing her wrists and rolling off of her. "Yeah, fuck me." He muttered disdainfully. She sat up as he moved off the bed and went to stand by the table, leaning over it and placing his palms down flat on its surface. She imagined he meant for it to appear as though he were examining the blueprints she'd left lying there. But if he was even half as rattled as she felt, he likely wasn't seeing any of it.

She hoped he was, because she herself felt gutted. The silence that followed was deafening, a sickly stillness wrought with tension and misery.

Still sitting on the edge of that bed, she closed her eyes and willed the hurt and anger to subside. How had things escalated so quickly? Hadn't she been trying to smooth things over? How could he think so little of her? Wasn't he supposed to know her?

It was true that once she'd recognized her gilded cage for what it was, she hadn't had many options. But that wasn't the only reason she'd come back to him. She'd risked everything she had left just to get here. Life, limb and dignity included.

He had to know she'd come for more than just herself. She needed him to know she understood the gravity of her mistakes. She needed him to know that the decisions she'd made all those months ago had not been made lightly. It truly had broken her heart to lock that gate between them. But she'd done it because, at the time, she'd truly believed it to be the only path to Nassau's continued survival. When the thought of moving on without him had pained her, she'd tried to sway him to see her side of things. She'd asked him to side with her. But he'd been just as determined to refuse English rule as she'd been on collaborating with it. She'd believed Nassau to hold the largest piece of her heart; that its destruction would be the end of her and everything she'd spent her life trying to achieve. At the time, she hadn't realized that loosing him would leave a wound so virulent and immedicable.

She'd thought herself capable of rising above such things for the greater good.

She'd tried, she really had. She'd wrapped fury and hate around herself like a blanketing shield, allowed a misguided quest for vengeance and sovereignty to rule her actions and numb the pain of her own self hatred.

And for a time, it had felt like it was working.

But she'd been mistaken. Nothing she'd done since taking Abigail had been worth a damn thing. Nassau was neither free nor legitimate, merely superseded and overwhelmed by a cruel and domineering empire masquerading under a guise of civility and moral superiority. Woodes may have been kind to her, more lenient and accepting than most men would have been toward a woman of her circumstance, but his vision of Nassau would never be her own. Left in English hands, Nassau was simply to become another insignificant and unremarkable island, merely an additional extension upon England's ever growing reach. She could see that now.

She could see that she'd burned all she had ever loved in search of an outcome that could never have truly been. It didn't exist. It never had. Those misguided beliefs and wayward ambitions had cost her everything.

And Charles had paid dearly for it.

She needed to say something to make him understand she knew the severity of her failings. Nothing she'd done had been without misery or regret. Turning from him that night had been the most painful and difficult thing she'd ever done. She told herself she'd done it to save Nassau and all she'd built there, and there was truth to that, but not in its entirety.

She'd been afraid. Confronted with how much she cared for him and her inability to convince him to see what – at the time – she'd believed to be reason, she'd panicked and taken measures to remove the source of that fear. A part of her had sabotaged everything simply because she was frightened. Not just of what would become of she and Nassau, but of how the love she held for Charles might influence her better judgment.

It was a thing she was loathe to admit. She was not a woman who ran. Typically, she was more likely to throw a punch than turn and flee. But in this instance she had tucked tail and ran. Even if she had wrapped it up with reason and rationale, there had been a touch of blatant cowardice in her actions.

She hated knowing that, much preferred being consumed with rage and imagined justifications.

With a furrowed brow and pursed lips, she shifted to the edge of the bed. She sat there with her feet planted on the floor and her eyes burrowing into the back of his skull. As the quiet carried ever onward, she took a slow breath in through her nose. Speaking quiet, slow and steady on the exhale, she said, "The night you asked me to side with you, to show the English that Nassau was ours... I wanted to say yes..."

There. She'd said it. It was out there even though she wasn't sure it was the right thing to say. Hell, she wasn't even certain he'd grasp the significance of the admission or the explanation behind it. But she'd thrown it out there. So there it was; her messy, screwed up truth in all its fucked up glory.

He scoffed. The bastard actually scoffed.

"Bullshit." He barked as he whirled to face her.

How dare she try this now. He didn't want to hear her heartfelt woes, couldn't bear to stomach another machination. Or even worse, an apology. Nothing she could say would change what she'd done. Nothing could take away the heartache she'd caused, the inexplicable grief that had come with the realization that she'd taken the girl right out from under his nose after he'd offered her everything he had to give. She'd let him believe she understood, that she believed him. Then she'd buried a knife in his back and left him for dead, later compacting her betrayal by actively seeking out his capture and extermination after his crew hadn't opted to murder him.

So no, he didn't want to hear her ardent tales of heartache and regret. He wasn't interested in her apologies, regardless of whether or not they were authentic. She didn't deserve it. If there was a part of him that whispered about his reasoning being born of the fear he might be moved by her narratives, he ignored it. This wasn't about fear, it was about the refusal to surrender, a desire to keep her from getting the upper hand. At least that's what he told himself.

The next words shot up from his chest as if they'd been waiting to escape from the very start. "You said what you said and did what you did because you wanted to, because your plans for that place mattered more to you than anything we'd shared." He spat acerbically. His voice was dangerously low and biting, honest and unapologetic. He took one quick and impulsive step forward, months of pent up bitterness and pain culminating in a hateful burst of blurted truths. "You came up to that fort with every intention of swaying me toward your perception of things, to have me swallow your words as undisputed truths. And when it became apparent that your argument would fail to convert me, you endeavored to exploit my affection for you. You used it to rob me of what was rightfully mine. To destroy me. You condemned me to death."

A bullet might have been kinder. For in that moment she was quite certain she would have preferred one to the pain that blossomed through her chest with his words. It had been hard enough for her to simply admit that she'd been wrong, she wasn't one who apologized often or easily. Such admissions stung and left you at the mercy of others, which was something Eleanor detested almost above all things. As a result, his disbelieving and accusatory response to a painfully genuine admission did little more than pour salt into open wounds.

But that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that he was right. It damn near killed her to admit, but there was truth to his words. She had gone there looking to sway him to her side of things, and she had turned on him when that proved impossible. But it hadn't been near as simple as he was making it sound.

She could remember his words from that night almost as clearly as if he'd just spoken them.

"Eleanor, when I take something from a man, his ship, his money, his life, I don't hide behind a clerk. I don't hide behind the law. I don't hide behind anything. I look him in his eye and I give him every chance to deny me. That is legitimate."

"I know what he wants you to believe, but he's wrong. England's return isn't inevitable. England has no more appetite for taking this place back today than it did yesterday, or last month, or last year, because they know it is inhabited by too many men like me, men who would die before being another man's slave again."

"Side with Flint, beg them to let you keep what is already yours, show them that weakness, and you'll invite the very outcome you wish to avoid. Side with me and we will show England that this place has never been stronger, and we'll keep our freedom for another day, another month, another year, a lifetime."

"Hey... Do you believe me?"

She'd known he was wrong. She'd known England was coming and that compliance was not nearly as optional as he seemed to believe it to be. But she'd still been moved by his passion, so horribly and inexplicably touched by his perception of what love, freedom and legitimacy truly were. It was such an honest declaration, a beautiful and powerful diction that spoke to her most coveted values and desires. In that moment she'd thought she truly understood him, felt closer to him than she ever had before.

And for a spit second, she'd almost believed the fairytale. She'd genuinely wanted to to say yes. She'd wanted to throw it all away and side with a plan she knew would fail. All because she loved him.

And that was terrifying.

It had suddenly become agonizingly apparent that her love of him was clouding her better judgment, putting everything she'd worked so hard for at dire risk. It was with that realization that she'd made the decision to rescue Abigail, though she hadn't yet worked out the how of it.

When he'd asked her if she believed him, she hadn't had the heart to tell him no. She didn't even truly want to. So she'd kissed him instead. She kissed him because she wanted to, because she was heartbroken, terrified and resolved all at once. She hadn't been aiming to use his affection for her against him, it truly hadn't occurred to her in that moment. When she'd lain down with him, it hadn't been with plans to deceive him.

She'd only been thinking of saying goodbye.

The plans for deceit had come later, as she'd lain beside him denying the sting in her nose and dampness of her eyes. When she'd spotted those keys laying on the dresser across the room, she hadn't given herself time to second guess the decision. Even as her heart bled and her mind screamed, she'd reached for those keys and fled.

How dare he stand before her now and presume to know what she'd been feeling in those moments? He'd no idea what it had cost her to refuse him. To lay with him knowing it was the last time. To abandon him to a fate she hadn't been certain he'd be able to overcome. When she'd turned that key in its chamber, a part of her had died with him down there in those tunnels.

And he hadn't a fucking clue.

Eleanor wasn't a woman who handled hurt feelings particularly well. She tended to lash out when wounded, and today was no different.

Her eyes clouded with the hurt and fury of it all, with the careless ignorance of his accusation. Just because she'd been capable of separating her heart from her mind, didn't mean she hadn't cared. It didn't negate or abjure the validity and worth of everything they'd shared. And it sure as fuck didn't mean she hadn't loved him. How could he possibly think so little of her? To say she'd placed Nassau above him was one thing, it was true for the most part. She'd been blinded by ambition and a dream that could never be actualized. She'd made mistakes, yes. But to imply that he'd meant so little to her, or that what they'd shared hadn't held any real meaning for her?

It was bullshit. Infuriating, idiotic bullshit.

For a moment, the aching fury that his accusation had evoked rendered her silent. As her hands fisted around the edges of the mattress on either side of her, she could barely see past the rage, hardly breathe past the choking pain. Such a blinding, aching anger probably wasn't the most rational or constructive reaction to his slander. And a small and distant part of her still recognized that, but it was all she could do to keep from melting down or hurling herself across the room to claw his eyes out.

Possibly both.

The quiet stretched on and she'd still said nothing to refute or deny his accusation. He figured she must have assumed the glare she was giving him was answer enough. It wasn't, but it was clear she hadn't appreciated his allegation and obviously disagreed with either the statement itself or at least the sentiment behind it. Which was ridiculous, considering every decision she'd made prior to coming here had been indicative of exactly what he'd just claimed.

The fact that she'd yet to say anything only exasperated him further. She'd made him edgy, left him revved up and looking for a fight. The least she could do now was give it to him. She'd never been one to back down from the fray before, so why clam up now? He still wasn't much interested in hearing about her excuses or regrets, but he had to admit he was somewhat curious. If he could get some affirmation on what her motives and mindset had been that night, then maybe he still had a shot at avoiding another inevitable slip. Maybe it would be enough to convince his foolish heart of what his mind already knew. Maybe with time, he could be free of her influence.

Yeah, and maybe hell was freezing over as they spoke.

He narrowed his eyes and probed further anyway. "Why, then? Hm? If not only for wanton selfishness and childish disillusion, then what?"

Again, if she had stopped to consider his behaviour, his wording and the implications behind them, she might have been able to take something more constructive away from the discussion. If she'd taken a moment to process, she might have remembered that he had little reason to trust anything that left her mouth. But riding that wave of emotion and regret, she didn't stop to consider anything.

She simply reacted.

"Because I actually considered it!" She shrieked, flinging her body up to stand. "Because even as I knew your plan was foolish, as I knew it was doomed and saw that you were blinded to the truth of what would become of our home," She slapped a hand over her chest with fervor, eyes damp and face filled with anguish and rage. "I still wanted to say yes!"

She was wild, near trembling with the raging torment of an inner conflict he knew too well. It was too familiar not to recognize. The trepidation and distress, that bitter fury? They were telling enough. She wasn't lying, not right now. She'd inadvertently dropped all pretense of control. She was acting on impulse, free falling as her temper took hold of the reins and forced her to ride out the affliction of feeling.

"I wanted to say yes!" She repeated with frenzied passion. "Do you understand how dangerous that is? How stupid?!" She turned away from him then, her chest heaving with the exertion of it all. The room had gone painfully quiet, her heartbeat thudding in her ears like thunder as she fought to refashion some semblance of her equanimity. When she spoke again her voice was indurated, more quiet and composed. "I'd no place in my heart for that kind of weakness... So I found means of guarding against it..."

There was a moment of deafening silence, the only sound being the slight heaving of her breath. He'd gone so sickeningly reticent, so impossibly still. She knew even without turning to look, that his eyes were scorching holes into the back of her head.

She suddenly wished she could take it all back, that she hadn't shared that particular insight into her motives. Because she'd never felt quite so naked, so utterly exposed and helpless. Her skin was crawling, her mind reeling. The urge to flee was present, but she'd not reduce herself any further by doing so. With that thought she willed herself to turn around, hoping that the look on his face would offer some impression as to what he was thinking.

She turned with her chin held high and her eyes level and focused despite their telling dampness. She met his gaze as the silence extended for a few more heavy beats of her heart, but neither of them moved. As they stared each other down, she found herself thinking that the expression he wore was not unlike the one that had ridden his face the night she'd left him. It was wrought with anger, pain and betrayal. It was an expression that had haunted her endlessly from the moment she'd twisted that key into the locked position.

How could she keep doing this to him? What right did she have? He'd been looking for an excuse to push her away, to create some much needed distance. Instead, she'd further fractured the foundations of his resolve. Her confession had carved deep, left him raw and damn near eviscerated all over again. He'd originally chalked up her betrayal solely to childish ambition and a thirst for substantiation, power and self-governance. He'd assumed the fear of loosing Nassau and all she'd spent her life trying to achieve had only further galvanized her efforts. But if her outburst was to believed, there was more to it than that.

He didn't want there to be more to it. He wanted to write her off as a lost cause; a manipulative, bloodthirsty harpy. But now she'd lain herself open, bared her insides and dared him to look away.

He wanted to look away. God, he'd never wanted anything so badly in his life. But he couldn't. He just stood there, eyes and mind meticulously cataloging, sifting through the emotional wreckage she'd just haphazardly exposed.

Instead he found himself drawn into all that familiar, swirling chaos. She was a walking catastrophe, a beautiful disaster leaving blood and ruin in her wake. But it didn't matter. It never really had. That had always been the problem. Even staring into that void and knowing there was nothing but woe behind it, he still felt its pull. Despite the pain, there were pieces of him that still yearned to stand amongst the devastation by her side.

Had he been able to go on believing the motives for her betrayal were grounded solely in selfish ambition and naïve notions of equality and legitimacy, he may have been able to dismiss her more easily. But now it was clear that while such things had certainly played a role in her treachery, there had been something more intimate at play. It hadn't only been about Nassau and the preservation of her authority and position. A significant portion of it had been about him and what he'd meant to her, the vulnerability that that affection presented in her.

That night in the fort, she'd caught herself considering his offer despite the fact that she believed it to be mad. With this discovery, she'd panicked. She believed her affection for him had compromised her judgment, that it had left her vulnerable and torn between two opposing sides. She'd seen a weakness, a flaw in her carefully constructed defenses and a threat to Nassau's future.

And she'd acted to patch the breach.

She'd done something similar in the years past, when she'd first come to realize that she'd never be seen as anything more than Charles Vane's woman if she didn't break from him. It was why she'd ended things back then, and it was why she'd ended things that night in the tunnels.

Having some of the blame fall on the insecurities she'd always had surrounding love and weakness shouldn't have lessened the blow. It shouldn't have mattered, as her insecurities were no longer relevant. Her fears of abandonment and the vulnerability that accompanied getting close to someone had always been present. He'd always known those fears to be burdens she carried.

None of this should have made any difference to him but it did, and that was maddening. This woman was maddening, infuriating. Not a damned simple bone in her body. With her, everything had to be twisted up, gnarled and complicated.

When he finally shifted into motion she simply watched as he stalked towards her. His body was wrought with tension and his eyes full of anger and something far less decipherable. He looked baleful, as though he might be inclined to strike her, or worse. Perhaps he didn't believe her, or maybe he'd just finally had enough of all this. Either way, he looked ready to reach out and strangle her.

Her body tensed as the distance between them quickly shrunk, but ego had her spine straightening and her chin lifting. She stood her ground and watched his approach in slow motion, as though time had substantially abated while she herself remained unaffected by the change. He was seconds away and her body screamed for movement, pulsing with the instinct to flee. But her mind demanded stillness, a dignified acceptance of whatever happened next.

As he closed the distance between them, his hand shot forward to reach around and grip the back of her neck. He jerked her forward and hovered just inches from her face, his eyes still blazing with contempt.

"Do you think that makes a difference? That it justifies your actions?" He growled as her hands flew up to grasp tightly at his forearms. She didn't struggle, but she held on.

His eyes burned into hers, full of a desperate sort of inquest. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, that she'd been foolish and blind. But she still felt raw, marred by the accusation in his claims. So instead, she settled for another truth. "No. But I think it should count for something..." Her answer was soft but curt, straightforward and honest.

It did. As much as he wished it didn't, it did count for something. It tore at something in his chest and demanded he move closer. Annoyed with himself, he yanked her even closer. He was still angry with her, and this didn't absolve her of her sins. But it did earn her a little understanding, even if he'd rather it didn't. His forehead rested against hers as his grip on the nape of her neck tightened. He spoke in low and graveled tones, now more woefully resigned to his fate than ever. "You're infuriating." He ground out heatedly.

She didn't respond but held his gaze searchingly, needing to know if he understood she'd been telling the truth. He must have known because there was no sting of blade or brunt of fist as he shifted closer and ducked his head. There was only the sudden pressure of his mouth against hers, followed quickly by the prickling scrape of stubble against her cheek as his teeth and tongue worked their way across her jaw and down the side of her neck. Instinctively her hands came up to grip the sides of his head. Leaning into him, she released a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding.

It wasn't exactly an outright apology, but that wasn't their way and it never had been. It wasn't forgiveness either, he wasn't sure he was even capable of offering her as much. But it was a patch of common ground, a familiar and dependable outlet for expression without the drawback of relinquishing too much control or getting unduly verbose. This was their own version of redress, and was it more than she deserved. He'd been moved by her admission, drawn to her side by it, yes. But he wouldn't give voice to any deeper fears or vulnerabilities by allowing for a more assiduous examination of what had just transpired. His actions were also a means of avoiding any more overly emotive confessions, of evading the possibility of being subjected to the discomfort of taking this discussion any further.

He didn't want to delve too deep into the way her confession had only exacerbated the mad cravings he still had for her. He had no interest in exploring the extent to which it had effected him. He was certain he wouldn't like what he found. He was quite positive that if he allowed her to say much more, he might not be able to withstand the onslaught. She'd disarm and cripple him, force him to relinquish what little was left of himself to kneel at her feet.

The thought was an irascible one, one he was unwilling to cede to. He might not be able escape the way he felt about her, but that didn't mean he had to go along with it cordially. He'd pulled back only slightly when one of his hands rushed down between them as he breathed against her mouth."Nothing you do makes any Goddamned sense." He declared bitterly as his hand slipped hastily into the loose waistband of her borrowed breeches.

Deep down he knew that wasn't altogether true, but it made him feel better to say it. In actuality, she made a little too much sense. Eleanor-sense, but it was still sense nonetheless. He just spent most of his time trying to ignore it.

Her mouth opened in a small, surprised gasp as his fingers found that familiar little bundle of nerves between her thighs. He took advantage of her surprise by leaning into her again, slipping his tongue into her mouth as his fingers continued working against her.

Never content to act the passive lover, Eleanor hastily began yanking his shirt free of the waist of his his trousers. She'd just begun trying to jerk it up over his head when he took a step forward, forcing her back towards the bed. She barely manged to maneuver his shirt up over his head and toss it to the floor before he pushed her back another step. She toppled backward onto the shoddy mattress with little more than a grunt on impact, too caught up in the task at hand to bother with any discomfort it might have caused. His hand parted from her center only long enough to account for his body landing firmly atop hers and readjusting himself above her, his fingers swiftly resumed their torturous circular motion. She arched against him, her neck craning back as his mouth trailed along the junction of her neck and shoulder.

Whoever said apologies needed to be verbal was an idiot. This was far better, far more enjoyable and far less compromising. She fisted her hands in his hair as he moved against her, her breath coming quickly in his ear as his teeth grazed her shoulder.

It briefly occurred to him that he probably should have removed her breeches before he'd knocked her onto the bed, but he wasn't keen on climbing off her long enough to remove them just yet. Abandoning her clit momentarily in search of better maneuverability, he moved to pop open the front of her breeches. A moment later he'd slid his index finger inside her, pumping twice before withdrawing and repeating the motion with his middle finger. With the two digits slickened, he pressed both against her entrance, reveling in the way her breath hitched as he pushed inside. She was too wet for there to be much resistance as his fingers slid home but he found himself marveling at her tightness, the way her muscles bore down on his fingers as he worked them inside her.

He'd always enjoyed watching her. She'd always been so unabashedly responsive, so unrepentantly wanton and demanding regardless of whether she was on the giving or receiving end of things. That had always riled him up, had his head fogging and his crotch tightening. She was never passive, and she'd reduced him to puddy in her hands more times than he could count. The woman had a way about her; a succubus-incarnate.

As if on cue her nails found purchase in his back and shoulders as she moved against his hand, and he wouldn't deny there was a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing there would be marks there tomorrow. When he moved his thumb up to brush against her clit, her hips jerked as a soft cry fled her lips seemingly unbidden.

He couldn't help but smirk with the sound of it. Toying with her had always been more fun than it should have been. There was a certain degree of power and satisfaction in the act, in watching her quiver and sigh beneath him. In knowing he'd the skill to turn her into this needy, quivering mess of sticky heat and skin. Right now he needed that power, that control. He wanted her trembling, wet and desperate. There was much he couldn't control in regards to her, but he could control this. He could dictate this moment.

God, she could live forever and never get enough of him. The man was ruthlessly adept with his hands. Sometimes she thought he might be more attuned to her needs than even she was. She was impatient, drowning and burning all at once. She lived for these moments; the reckless abandon and unbridled desire, a savage and all consuming lust. The rest of the world fell away. Nothing else mattered.

She reached down to rub her palm against the strain of his trousers as his free hand worked her shirt up over her breasts. As his mouth closed over her left nipple she groaned, her hand leaving his crotch to fumble with the ties of his trousers. But much to her chagrin, he shifted away from her hand. Sliding down her body to work his mouth briskly across her flesh from breast to belly, where he pulled his hand from between her thighs in favor of finally tugging at the waist of her breeches. Which, in all honesty, were becoming a rather irritating hindrance that she was all too happy to be rid of.

Not needing further persuasion, she lifted her hips to make their removal easier. He'd gotten them down to her knees before she sat up on her elbows and kicked herself free of the rest of them, her boots getting discarded in the same frantic motion. The moment she was free of the ill fitting garment, she reached for him, scraping her teeth across his bottom lip as she once again reached for the ties of his trousers..

He returned the kiss for only a moment before pulling free of her grasp to crawl back down her body. Fully intent on telling him to stop mucking about and fuck her, she propped herself up on her elbows to frown down at him. She only got as far as his name. "Charles, if you – "

"Shut up." He grunted.

He dropped to kneel by the side of the bed, and she gave a surprised and fairly undignified yelp as he hooked his hands under the back of her knees and jerked her forward a few inches so that her rear lay just at the edge of the bed. Propping up on her elbows again, she narrowed her eyes and prepared to try again. "If you – "

He cut her off again, though this time it wasn't with words. He slid down between her thighs, his shoulders bumping against the insides of her legs as he lowered his face toward her center. When his mouth closed over her, any objections she might have voiced were quickly forgotten.

Christ, she'd almost forgotten how good he was at this. She'd always wondered if one of the whores at the inn had been giving him tips. She suspected that after her time with Max had ended and he'd found his way back into her bed, he hadn't wanted there to be any doubt as to which of them was better equipped to handle her needs. The thought made her smile. The image of the notorious and fearsome Captain Charles Vane taking pointers from a whore on the art of cunnilingus just to impress her; it was priceless. She had no proof, of course and she was almost certain he'd deny it if she asked him outright. But she kind of hoped it was true.

The thought was a pleasant one.

Her inner musings were cut short as his tongue swirled over her again and her hand shot out to fist in his hair, pressing him more firmly against her. When he moved to lift her right leg up onto his shoulder, she eagerly shifted to comply. With the new position granting him better access, his free hand glided up the inside of her thigh and across the dampness of her sex. With teeth and tongue still working tirelessly across her clit, he slid his fingers across the aperture of her folds, gathering wetness as he went before sliding those same two fingers inside.

With practiced ease, he curled his fingers, repeatedly bumping against that extraordinary little spot just inside. All the while his mouth moved against her, working her into a frenzied mess.

She writhed and groaned beneath him, her fingers pulling roughly at his hair as she fought to get closer. Her left leg came up to join her right on his shoulders, her thighs tightening against the sides of his head and her heels digging into his back as her hips began rolling frantically against his face. He smirked against her. She was close and he knew it. The shift in position somewhat diminished his mobility and made things more difficult, but he made due. Placing his free hand against her hip and lower abdomen in an attempt to restrict her movement, he doubled the efforts of his tongue, sucking mercilessly upon the tiny pearl that had her writhing. He was rewarded with an unintelligible sound that he might have called a whimper were she anyone else.

"Oh..." She gasped, mouth opening wordlessly as her thighs twitched and trembled around him. Her spine stiffened as she arched back and the muscles in in her abdomen jerked and fluttered against his palm. She let loose a breathy, barely audible mewling of the words "Oh, Christ!" before she came apart in his hands. He didn't bother letting up his ministrations as she rode out her release, he milked it for all she was worth, dragging it on for as long as he could.

If a flutter of sentimentality shot through his chest as he watched her come undone, he ignored it in favor of the thrill of heat and pride that burned low in his gut with the sight of her twitching beneath him.

When the shocks of pleasure subsided and he finally slid away from her to drop her legs from his shoulders, she felt limp and deliciously used. For a moment she lay there with her eyes closed, panting and trying to decelerate her heart rate. With the sound of movement, she glanced down to where he was still kneeling. Enthralled by the scene unfolding before her, her gaze caught his as he popped his fingers into his mouth and sucked them clean before casually swiping the remainder of her arousal from his chin with the back of his hand.

Sweet baby Jesus, if that wasn't the most provocative thing she'd ever seen. When he finally stood up and began tugging his belt from the loops of his trousers, she sat up and yanked her shirt up and off as reached for him, hastily helping him along with his trousers. She suddenly felt it crucial that he be rid of the rest of those clothes. She wanted him inside, yearned for that heady, aching fullness.

His boots were discarded and his trousers halfway down his thighs when he decided he didn't want to waste time removing them completely. When he pressed her back against the mattress, she took the hint and scooted backward, yanking him along with her. Settled, she pulled him down on top of her and spread her thighs, hooking one of her legs up over his hip.

Wasting little time, he reached down to position himself at her opening and she pressed her hips upward, urging him forward. She wriggled against him encouragingly, but he held off on pressing into her just yet. He liked watching her squirm, liked knowing he could work her into such wanton state of needy primitivity. All that sweat and sticky heat was because of him. Every breathy whimper, cry and sigh was his doing. The high and mighty Eleanor Guthrie shuddered and throbbed beneath his touch.

That knowledge had always been just a little more satisfying than it probably should have been.

Feeling rather smug and pleased that he'd finally gained the upper hand, he pressed a little further into her. Just barely inside, he leaned forward to nip at her left breast, rolling his eyes upward to watch her reaction. She hissed something unintelligible before raking her nails down the front of his chest. His gaze followed the movement of her hands as they traveled down between their bodies, and he knew what she was doing before she did it.

The backs of her knuckles brushed against him as she began toying with herself. "I swear to Christ, Charles..." She hissed breathlessly as his eyes snapped up to find hers burning. "If you don't fuck me, I'm going to finish the job myself."

His body throbbed with her words, a heated thrill shooting through his belly and straight into his groin. The things this woman said, the way she said them... She was going to be the death of him. Her voice was impatient and brusque, but it was obvious she was attempting to goad him into action without having to engage in any outright pleading. He knew she wouldn't beg him, regardless of how desperate she was. That would be a blatant submission, and she didn't submit to anyone. But it didn't matter because he'd heard the edge of needy desperation in her tone, and it was enough. He almost grinned at the sound of it. Almost.

She would have sworn that was almost a smile. His lips did that odd little quivery twitch thing, like they wanted to curve upward but he wouldn't quite let them. Beneath that self-satisfied and hungry gaze of his, she thought she saw a flicker of amusement. He looked almost as though he was going to say something, almost certainly something smartassed and salacious.

But as quickly as the expression had surfaced, it vanished. She might have tried to analyze the look a little further if she'd had more time, but he chose that particular moment to distract her. She barely managed to stifle the startled yelp that dove up from her chest as he slammed into her. In one swift motion, he'd thrust home, burying himself to the hilt. That first initial shove was always breathtaking, deliciously painful and pleasurable all at once. She knew some women didn't like it, but she loved the feeling of that stretching fullness as her body fought to adjust for the size of him. It was why she didn't always mind skipping over an excess of foreplay.

He didn't bother giving her much time to adjust to his invasion, he already knew she wouldn't need him to. Instead he watched her face contort agreeably as he leisurely slid out of her before brutally ramming back in. He reveled in the way she cried out, the way her spine arched and her nails dug into his shoulders as he found that perfect rhythm.

Loose stresses of his hair tickled against the side of her face and shoulder as he leaned over her. His palms lay flat on the mattress by either side of her head, supporting his upper half as he battered his hips against her own. That familiar heat was building again, prickling across her skin and pooling low in the base of her stomach. It was there, burning away under her skin but just out of reach, maddeningly elusive so soon after her previous release.

Her nails pressed tiny crescent shaped marks into the flesh on either side of his hips as she reached out to seized hold of them, jerking him against her in an unabashed demand to hasten their pace. The heel of her left foot dug into his lower back as she rolled her hips against him, emphasizing her insistence and urging him to comply. He only rolled his own in response and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to muffle the sound that threatened to surge up.

"Faster." She demanded breathlessly, frustrated that she'd had to vocalize the demand at all.

It was something he'd been planning on anyways, but the fact that she'd given order for it gave him pause. He had no intention of allowing her to take the reigns. He needed to retain some measure of dominion over this encounter. With that thought he withdrew from her body, enjoying her frustrated grunt of annoyance as he did so.

She opened her mouth to say something he'd no doubt would be scathing, but he cut her off. He had orders of his own to make. "Turn over." He grumbled rapaciously, his hand tapping once against her right thigh in reiteration.

She thought about denying him, of refusing simply because he so clearly wanted her to conform to the demand. It was a compromising position after all, one that provided him with far more mobility and control than it did her. But something about the way he was eying her stopped her, compelled her to accede without further complaint. She got the distinct impression there was more to her acquiescence than it's surface value. Something in his face spoke of a quiet desperation, an explicit need for authority over this moment.

A silent sort of understanding flickered between them before she turned over without another word. She rolled onto her stomach and rose up on her elbows and knees, presenting herself like a offering. Shifting to peer over her shoulder at him, she tipped her hips toward him. With heat still churning in her belly, she watched him as he knelt behind her taking in the view. And when he shifted that heavy lidded gaze up to meet hers, the torridity of that look set her ablaze.

She leaned back against his groin and felt him bump against her backside. When she spoke it was in a eager and sultry tone. "Well?" She pressed inquisitively.

He needed no further coaxing. He'd taken hold of hips and crammed himself back inside almost before the words had left her mouth. The groaning sigh that left his lips upon reentry had her pressing back against him, her skin crawling with need as she silently plead for movement. One of his hands clutched at her hip while the other seized her opposite shoulder and he used the position as leverage to pull her into every thrust. She didn't have to wait long before he was pounding into her again, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room to mingle with heavy breath and quiet moans.

Soon enough that heat was surging up again. She could feel it spreading low in her abdomen, tingling and burning along her skin as he hammered into her. She just needed a little more, a final push to send her reeling over that jagged edge into oblivion. She shifted her weight slightly to her left arm, intending to bring her right hand down between her thighs and chase that high to the finish line. But the jolting force of his body driving into hers kept throwing her off balance. She couldn't hold the position and manipulate herself all at once, but she didn't want to tell him to let up either.

As if sensing her dilemma, he slid his hand away from her shoulder and around to the front of her throat. His grip was firm but not quite stifling as he used the hold to angle her up and backward into a kneeling position. His hips moved with brutally efficiency as his other hand snaked across her abdomen and down between the spread of her legs.

Her spine bowed as his fingers found her, her arms failing out in search of purchase. Her left hand reached up and over her shoulder to fist in the hair at the back of his neck while her right shot backward to grasp desperately at the back of his thigh as he moved against her. She could feel his breath flitting across her skin, the wet scrape of his teeth and tongue across her shoulder as his hips and fingers achieved a painfully adept pattern of synchronized movement.

It was too much.

Her body began to shake, her muscles trembling and tightening as she finally ascended that peak. He had her. This was where his certainty of control was solidified. He leaned into her then, growling an echo of her own words back at her. "Come." He commanded hungrily.

She might have laughed at the circularity of the situation, at how he'd turned things around on her in such a blatant fashion. But she was lost, too consumed by rapture to really care. She couldn't have stepped back from that ledge even if she'd wanted to, she was too far gone and his timing was exquisite.

She clenched and throbbed around him, her mouth dropping open in a wordless cry as her body jerked wildly against his continued thrusting. Her nails dug into the flesh of his thigh as she writhed, and his thrusts began to loose their cadency. He grunted as he struggled to hold his own against the pulsing compression of her release, the rippling heat of her. But as her body contracted once more around him, he lost all semblance of restraint.

With several more frenzied thrusts, he buried himself deep as his body stiffened and shuttered. His face pressed into her hair at the back of her neck as he followed her over that edge, emptying himself with a muffled groan. She shivered and let loose something close to a whimper as the searing heat of him spurt across her insides. Leaning back against him, she rode out the remaining aftershocks of her release with a gentle rocking of the hips.

His forehead rested against her shoulder and his grip on her hips slackened as she continued with that lazy, satisfied undulation. Her movement gradually slowed as he softened, finally coming to a complete stop as he reached a flaccidity that wouldn't allow them to remain joined. She shivered as he slid from her body and the world began to bleed back into focus.

With a laggard sort of interest, he watched her flop down onto the mattress in front of him. He studied her for only a split second before flopping down laggardly beside her, but it was long enough to take note of the state of her. She was laying there with her eyes closed and chest heaving, still trying to catch her breath. Her hair was damp and clinging to the edges of her face in a wild sort of disarray. Her skin was slick with sweat and various fluids, and there were numerous pinkish discolorations streaked across her body by virtue of his overzealous handling.

He should have thought her a disheveled mess. But Goddamn it, she was stunning; absolutely gorgeous.

He knew the thought was born of a deadly combination of his continually misguided affections and the languid haze of post coital activity, but that didn't stop him from thinking it. He hadn't looked at her again since he'd dropped down beside her, but the outline of her body in his peripherals indicated she hadn't moved much. From what he could tell, she hadn't even opened her eyes or turned to face him and he found himself relieved. He wasn't certain if she was as eager to avoid a discussion as he was or if she'd simply dozed off, but either way he was grateful.

There was too much going on in his head right now, too much he didn't want to contemplate. Everything and nothing had changed all at once. None of it should have made any Goddamned difference, but he was disturbed by the notion that perhaps it had. Such a consideration had him feeling weak and stupid, two emotions that only served to further irritate.

Frustrated, he tilted his head to the left to study her subtly. Finding that her eyes were still closed and that her breathing had slowed and evened out, he decided she must have nodded off. He considered getting up and slipping away to roam the beach, but decided against it when he realized it wasn't late enough to ensure he wouldn't run into anyone. Normally that wouldn't have troubled him much, but he didn't feel like being bothered with anyone right now. So with a reigned sigh, her returned his gaze to the ceiling to ponder bitterly over the night's events.

It felt as though no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape her. It was like being bound to a runaway carriage she insisted on driving. They were always destined for the edge of a cliff.

She was the instrument of his repeated downfall, a lethal force that continually drove them over the brink. She was always pushing, always pressing ever forward even as there was no ground left to give. He could always see that crumbling ledge in the distance, always fought in vain to take control of the reins, to right their course before they fell.

But it never made any difference. They always dove, always crashed mercilessly into jagged rocks below. Over and over, they rushed towards the very same disaster, each time the crater coming up faster and more mercilessly than before. That drop just kept on growing, widening and stretching down deeper into the darkness.

And whenever he'd manage to crawl broken and bloodied from that pit, he'd find her waiting at the top. She'd look at him, reach for him, whisper things he longed to hear. She'd evoke from him unfathomable weakness, profound emotion; the likes of which no one else had ever managed to conjure from him.

And like a love sick fool, he'd climb right back up into that carriage. It seemed that no matter how hard he fought her, no matter how furious she made him, he always found himself bound for the edge of that damned cliff.

Now as he lay there in the dark with heavy eyes and fatigue clouding his mind, he had the maddest of thoughts; perhaps he just needed to stop fighting. If he was going to inevitably crash and burn, he ought to find away to ensure she smoldered right along with him.