A Pirate's Dream (16 page)

It wouldn’t have mattered.

She didn’t need air, because he tasted of it, full, sweet, and glorious. Her head swam, and her body writhed. She didn’t know what exactly she wanted to do—wrap her leg around his tail or make him undo the belt of her robe so that she could press her naked breasts to his chest.

But she did neither. She feared what he’d think if she touched him with her leg, and she wasn’t sure she was able to give her body and soul to a man who’d never be able to give his in return.

Reluctantly, she pulled away, whimpering from the almost pain of feeling her body so alive with no outlet for release.

Chest heaving, he’d still not released her. Instead, he’d pressed his forehead to hers and gulped in water like a man half suffocated.

“Nim,” he groaned after a minute, thumbs pressing gently along the bones of her jaw.

Clenching her jaw, she nodded. Her feelings in the moment were much too profound to put into simple words. Turning her face, she kissed the center of each of his palms and forced herself to pull out of his grasp.

“How was that for a thank you?” She laughed, but her heart was trapped in her throat, and if he looked too closely, he would have seen her eyes shimmering.

How was it possible to feel such heartache and elation all at the same time?

Laying a fist against her chest, she willed her galloping heart to calm itself, hoping he had no idea how desperate she felt. The kiss hadn’t quenched her thirst at all, but made her so hungry for more that she’d have sold her soul to the devil himself if only Sircco could be hers.

But leggers and fish did not fall in love.

Regardless of what Talia had done, she’d been one in a million. To expect not just any merman, but the Sea King himself to choose her as consort was the height of folly.

She might not like Stygia, but the mermaid was right about one thing: Nimue could only scratch an itch for him. She was a mere curiosity. She was Talia’s daughter, and maybe that’s where his curiosity stemmed from. Maybe he was curious because he’d lost her, and now perhaps he could indulge in Nim for a time.

But Nimue had too much self-respect to be a sidepiece. She wanted it all, and anything less was not acceptable. She was a greedy pirate that way.

His tongue lingered upon his lips, as if tasting her on him, and she almost forgot her brave words because her center still ached, still needed release. If Sircco hadn’t meant to her what he did, she might have given into temptation, but she’d given him her heart. If she slept with him now and he rejected her later, she’d lose her soul.

Reaching over for the tray he’d placed by his fin, he lifted it up, before gently setting it back down on her lap. His movements had been stiff and methodical.

Why did he suddenly look so tense?

Had she kissed him wrong?

Had he not liked it the way she had?

Both jaw muscles twitched in his cheeks as he bit down on his molars. He looked angry. His brows furrowed, and his lips thinned.

“Did I do it wrong?” she asked shyly.

Nimue didn’t have much practice with men. Growing up, she’d stolen a few kisses from scullery boys. But those had been quick pecks and little more. Two years ago, she’d fumbled her way through a tongue kiss with a handsome pirate named Pretty John, who’d groped at her breasts, squeezing them too tightly and making her groan, but not with excitement. She’d come away from the experience wiping at her wet and slobbery mouth and disgusted enough by it that she’d never tried again.

Sircco had barely touched her—his hands had never left her face—and she’d snapped like a raging bonfire for him. Fear slithered slickly through her gut. What if she’d been the only one to feel that? What if he’d experienced what she had with Pretty John?

Feeling stabby and humiliated, she lifted the fork and speared a slice of smoked fish with it.

He grabbed her hand. “You did everything right. Everything.”

His voice was even deeper than normal, and she was sure she was not imagining the sudden rise in water temperature.

Shoving the fish into her mouth, but barely tasting it, she tried to hide her elation at the compliment, but the corners of her lips were twitchy.

Leaning back on his hands, Sircco stared up with unblinking eyes at the frescoed dome ceiling.

She shoveled the food in her mouth more out of necessity than because it tasted good—which no doubt it did, but her tongue seemed too full of Sircco’s flavor only. The silence stretched between them.

Awkward at first, until he’d scooted back a ways, so that he rested against her knees.

She wasn’t sure whether to move them or not. She knew how fish viewed her legs—as a morbid fascination, and nothing more. But then his fingers began to play against the tops of her feet. And though it tickled, it also felt heavenly. His touch was inquisitive, soft, and yet exploratory.

She finished the last wedge of cowfish cheese, and didn’t know what to do next.

Should she move?

Did she want to?

No, not really. But she was growing uncomfortable sitting so still for so long. But if she moved, would he stop? She swallowed, growing more and more unsure with each passing second.

A moment later, he glanced over his shoulder, noted her empty plate, and sat up. “Here, let me take that for you.”

Smothering a groan of resentment at the stupid plate for diverting his attention, she handed it him.

Sircco swam back to the standing tray, set the plate down, then asked, “Are you thirsty?”

“A little.”

Reaching toward the tray of spirits, he went to pour her a dram of whisky.

“No, none tonight. Do you have any cider instead? I’m afraid to drink alcohol after that migraine. It can help fuel them, and I’d rather not have another one tonight.”

“I did not know that. Of course, I have cider.” Then grabbing a clear decanter, he poured a tumbler full and returned back to her side.

She took it gratefully, practically swallowing the entire thing in one gulp. Wet, cool, and bubbly, it flowed down her throat. She loved the magic of this place. She loved how she could still feel the icy chill of drinks that were left out.

Sighing with satisfaction, she watched as he grabbed the book he’d been reading when she’d come in.

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting you?” she asked when he once more settled next to her side.

There were two chairs in the study—one for her and one for him. This was his private reading room, where no one save his personally invited guests were allowed. Never had he sat on the floor at her feet before, or she at his.

“Do you have any other place to be, Nimue?” He lifted a dark brow.

Rolling the crystal across her lips, she mumbled, “No.”

He shrugged, opening his book.

“Sircco, are you sure you’re comfortable sitting on the floor? You’re a king. Wouldn’t you rather I—”

Smiling softly, he shook his head, causing the tiny hermits to float up and scrabble back for the safety of his crown. “I like where I am, as I enjoy where you are. In here, I am not a king. I am simply Sircco.”

She gulped at the heated intensity of his stare.

“Now. Would you like me to read to you?”

She nodded slowly. “What are you reading tonight?”

“Stories of my people’s history.” He touched a blunt finger to the pages. “I like to reacquaint myself with our past. It helps me to remember.”

“How old are you exactly?”

His cockeyed grin was full of boyish youthfulness. “And if I tell you, will you run away from me?”

She laughed. “Why would I run?”

“You might say I was too old to be your friend.”

Friend. Goddess, she wanted to be so much more than that.
Stop that, Nimue. Friends you are, be a good little pirate
.

“Age does not bother me. We live in Kingdom, after all. My father is hundreds of years old compared to my young mother. But truly, how old?”

Resting his weight on his palm, he shrugged. “How old do you think I am?”

“I think”—she tapped a fingernail to her lips—“that you are quite old. Ancient. Decrypt. Over the hill. Am I right?”

He chuckled. The sound reminded her of a nice warm whiskey, smooth, silky, and hot all at once. “You make it sound as though I’ll turn to dust soon.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but you are looking rather aged, my friend.”

His nostrils flared, and he swatted at her toes, tickling them gently and making her laugh.

“Stop that! Stop it.” She stomped on his hand when he didn’t. Narrowing her eyes, she pressed her heel down, waiting to hear him mutter about the obscenity of legs and how unsightly they were.

“I now know your weakness, little pirate.” He grinned, showing off an expanse of straight white teeth.

And if she hadn’t been a pirate, if she’d been a mere girl, she may have swooned at the sight of it.

Rolling his wrist out from under her, he traced the tip of her foot once more, before bringing his hand back to his side.

She couldn’t breathe properly. He’d not seemed disgusted at all by the sight or feel of them.

Why not?

Feeling out of sorts all of a sudden, she gestured at the book. “The... the story. What is it?”

A smile she dare not attempt to decipher flitted through his stormy eyes. “It is a tale of the star pool.”

She frowned. She’d never heard of the star pool.

“I’m not surprised you’ve not heard of it. The pool is heavily guarded and for folk eyes only.”

“What is it?”

“It is where we go to die, where our souls can rest.”

She shook her head. “But mother told me that when Talia died, she turned back to water and then vanished.”

His lips tugged down into a frown. “Talia had no time to return to Calypso’s bosom. It is why the sea mother allowed her new life.”

“But I thought Tinkerbell had reincarnated mother’s soul?”

“Aye, in a way, she did. But only by the blessing of the Sea. Folk live long lives. Endless lives. But we can die, just like anyone else in Kingdom given a grievous-enough injury. When a maiden senses her time has come, so long as she’s within Calypso’s protected waters, she will be granted life enough to swim to the star pool. That is where we give back our souls to our mother.”

“Do the rest of you come back the way Talia did?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “Hers was a special case. I believe my mother felt badly for the star-crossed lovers. Never before had folk fallen for a legger. Talia was special in many ways.”

Both sad and happy to hear his words, she smiled back at him. The spirit of Talia rested in her mother. Without Calypso’s favor, her mother wouldn’t exist today, but sometimes, it was hard to hear these stories coming from him, because it was obvious to her that Talia had been his great love, too.

Forgetting the fact that she was a legger for a moment—which she never could do anyway—how was she supposed to compete with the ghost of his greatest love? Mother had never out and out told Nimue that Sircco would have taken her back if she’d agreed to stay with him the first time she’d come to visit, but Nim suspected that had Trishelle even so much as hinted that she shared in his feelings—legs or no—he would have moved heaven and earth to keep her by his side.

“Read to me, Sircco.”

Nimue didn’t want to talk right now, but she also wasn’t in any great hurry to leave the peacefulness of his library. Even though they’d often shared moments alone, there’d always been the sense that they weren’t truly alone, not with the constant movement of servants and folk just outside the doors.

For a moment, she could pretend that it was just the two of them and that he wasn’t simply infatuated with the idea of her, but that he felt as deeply for her as she did for him.

Two more months, and she’d be gone. She could do this.

He settled into an easy cadence, his voice deep and soothing, lulling her into a dreamy haze as she imagined what the star pool must look like.

Hearing the tales of warrior mermaids who’d fought well and valiantly, given their lives for Calypso, and gone on to find their peace within a cave full of glittering souls.

But then he stopped talking, and she sensed the heavy press of his eyes on her. “Sircco?”

He looked not at her face, but at her legs, which were now completely bared, as she’d crossed them at some point.

Cheeks flaming, she rushed to cover them up. She didn’t usually care if she flashed some skin—this was how the gods had made her—but she felt suddenly naked in front of him.

“Don’t.” His voice trembled. “Don’t cover them.”

Fingers curled tightly into the fabric, a tremor zipped down her spine when he set the book aside and reached out for her.

He didn’t just use his fingers this time or glide them gently down her foot. He slid them up the back of her calf, his movements excruciatingly slow.

“Uncross your legs, Nimue,” he commanded, and it never occurred to her not to obey.

She was agonizingly aware that only a thin scrap of fabric covered her center from his now very-penetrating gaze. He continued his cursory exploration, moving from her calves to her knees.

Banging her head back on the chair, she bit down on her tongue, swallowing the hungry moan threatening to reveal just how much she enjoyed his touch. But then he moved from her knee to her thigh, fingers outstretched, and kneaded her muscle, her flesh.

“Oh, Gods.” She could no longer contain herself and moaned loudly when he circled the inside of her leg, his fingers coming dangerously close to her heated center. “Don’t... don’t go any higher.” She stared at him, at the lightning and thunder cracking through his amber eyes.

He paused and looked at her, not moving a muscle.

She would not survive this if he touched her. She would melt for him, and give him everything. Nimue both wanted and feared it. If he pushed even a little, she would spread herself wide before him, and she would hate herself come morning.

Digging at the coral armrests, she waited on bated breath to see what he would do.

With a grunt, he moved his fingers downward, and she wanted to weep at the emptiness she now felt, but soon, that was forgotten as his touch turned less studious and more skillful.