There, he gasps. Yes,just like that.

They don't talk much, and neither one is surprised by this. They have little in common—he's a disgraced officer of His Majesty's Navy; she's a former slave and pirate. It would be far more surprising if they could carry on an idle conversation.

Oh, God. Her voice is barely audible. Please... please...

They meet in taverns; they meet in corners of dark, flea-ridden inns where no-one can see their faces. There are times when they can't wait to find a bed and they simply fall on one another in a shadowed alleyway, hands slipping past cloth and across tender, yearning flesh.

AnaMaria... I can't... Only when need is peaking do they use names. Names aren't necessary; names don't say everything that needs to be said; names say everything that will never be spoken between them.

James. James, yes—James.

Occasionally, they try to talk, as if they're just two friends who've happened upon each other by chance in a wild, angry port.

"I wouldn't drink that brew; tis said it'll addle a man's brain and next he knows, he's chained in the cell of an Indian maharajah. Best keep to rum."

"I've heard rumour of a great beast from the deep, stalking unsuspecting ships. Superstition and fancy, I imagine, but it could not hurt to keep a weather-eye. More things in heaven and earth and all that."

"He's not been 'round here in a while. I'd stop askin', if I was you. Only bringin' attention to yourself."

"Yes, thank you, but you've no more caution than I in this, have you?"

Those attempts at conversation don't last long; they're only postponing the inevitable. Neither one is entirely certain why they even try; perhaps it's an attempt to draw out the wanting, to heighten the desire. It's not needed—every step on the stair up to a dingy rented room is foreplay enough; every breathless gasp and lingering touch of mouth to skin brings already-heated blood to a boil.

There, he gasps. Yes, just like that, and she relents, taking him into her mouth as he buries his hands in her hair and rises against her until he's lost.

Oh, God. Her voice is barely audible. Please... please... and he obeys, sinking thrusting falling into her as she writhes beneath him.

AnaMaria. Her name, torn from his throat, is both a plea and a cry for more.

James. She cries his name like a blessing even as her sharp nails tear at his flesh; she cries his name like waves crashing on a distant shore.