“How long?” he whispered against Seb’s ear.
Seb shrugged. “An hour, maybe two.”
“Time enough, then,” Cook murmured. He dropped his hand and cupped Seb’s cock, gently turning his friend around to face him.
Seb grimaced. “You smell of that whorelet….”
“Harlot,” Cook corrected absently, his fingers tracing the outline of Seb’s stiffening prick. Seb hissed out a breath, and Cook looked up at his pained expression and winced. “Lo siento, mi querido,” he mumbled, not sure whether he was apologizing for the badly timed English lesson or for leaving Seb high and dry while he spent the last of their money on an indifferent whore.
Seb’s expression softened. “Your language is ridiculous, you know,” he chided, and Cook recognized the peace offering and accepted it gratefully.
He licked a wet line up the column of Seb’s throat, pushing aside his heavy golden earrings to nip at the delicate skin below his ear. Hooking a hand behind Seb’s neck, he wrenched at the eelskin tie that bound his hair, releasing it to cascade around his shoulders. Seb’s liquid eyes found his, and he wet his succulent lips in anticipation. He leaned forward, but Cook pushed him back against the wall and held him in place, one hand splayed across his chest while the other teased at the hardness between Seb’s legs.
Seb rolled his head back, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and Cook watched through narrowed eyes, relishing his ability to make his friend writhe and moan with nothing more than a simple touch. He stroked Seb’s smooth chest, his hand looking red and raw in comparison to Seb’s flawless, tawny skin.
“Teo,” Seb whispered. As always, the slight mispronunciation of Cook’s first name sent a shiver down his spine. He looked up into desperate eyes as Seb covered his stroking hand and pressed hard against his rigid erection. “Por favor, Teo,” he begged.
Cook was done teasing. He tugged down Seb’s breeches and, with one hand braced against the wall, went to work stripping Sebastiano’s cock in firm, rhythmic strokes. He pressed their mouths together and swallowed Seb’s moans, his hand blurring on Seb’s prick until his friend arched his back and shuddered to noisy completion before relaxing against him, blissfully spent. He gave Seb a moment to pull in a few calming breaths, then murmured, “Bend over for me.”
His quick fumble with Rosie had barely taken the edge off his rampant desire, and Seb’s glorious abandon was powerfully arousing. He slid a hand underneath Seb’s cock and worked a finger up into his tight hole, making his intentions known. Seb squirmed, but he spread his legs a little wider, and Cook stroked in and out quickly, loosening the passage as best he could. He watched Seb’s expression closely, and when his eyes went wide and his pupils dilated, Cook spun his compliant partner around and pushed him face down over the table, fumbling his own breeches open.
He smoothed his hands over his friend’s muscular back, feeling deceptive strength under soft skin. Rubbing his leaking cock against Seb’s backside, he gasped as it slid between Seb’s cheeks and nudged up against the puckered opening to his body, and a moment later Seb reached back with both hands and opened himself up. Cook shuddered at the gesture, so utterly trusting, and grasping his own cock, he pressed forward, fighting the dry resistance until Seb’s body yielded and took him in. Cook moaned at the heat and tightness, and at the sight of Seb spread out so wantonly underneath him. He slid back, then slammed forward forcefully, grunting as Seb’s muscles clenched around his prick; soon his fingers were digging into Seb’s hips as he built a hard, fast rhythm, mindlessly driving toward his own gratification. He came with a hoarse cry, dragging Seb up and off the table and pumping deeply into him, feeling his friend struggle to keep them both upright. Trembling on unsteady legs, he panted harshly against Seb’s back until his cock softened enough to slide wetly out of Seb’s loosened hole. A moment later, Seb gently disentangled them and tumbled them onto the messy sheets of their narrow truckle bed.
Stretching lazily, Cook tugged Seb’s head down and kissed his wind-chapped lips, tasting the sticky residue of cheap rum. “It will all work out,” he promised, cheerfully optimistic now that Teach was drawing near.
Seb snorted in disbelief, but he didn’t seem able to summon the energy to argue. Instead, he tucked in against Cook’s side and soon fell asleep. Cook dozed fitfully as the hot sun inched across the room and the shadows lengthened. At times like this, he wondered why he ever fucked anybody else; nobody had ever given him what Seb offered so passionately and so freely. He tightened his arm, pulling Seb closer, and drifted into sated sleep.
BY THE time they made it back outside, the sun had gone down. Fortunately they had made this journey dozens of times before, and were able to follow the well-worn path with relative ease.
Seb had been right, and Teach’s two ships were now docked in the bay, the Revenge casting its shadow over the smaller Sea Nymph. They stopped beside the quay, watching as the boats were unloaded in the light of guttering torches. Several iron-bound caskets were carried off the Revenge that Cook knew contained golden doubloons and silver pieces of eight, plundered from Spanish merchant ships. Along with that booty were barrels of molasses from Cuba, bales of cotton from Jamaica, and sugarcane from Guadeloupe, all captured off the trading vessels that sailed from the islands to various European ports. The gold and silver would be shared amongst the captain and crew; the other goods would be offloaded to the smugglers who hovered like buzzards over carrion, waiting to pick off the best of the cargo. In turn they would load up the small ketches that lined the dock and ferry the goods back between the islands.
The waterside was seething as dozens of sailors off Teach’s small flotilla thronged the harbor in pursuit of women, liquor, and games of chance. Cook led them back to The Dog and Duck, quickly spotting Edward Teach, who was seated at one of the larger tables, surrounded by his crew. Pushing his way through the crowd, Cook stopped as the captain looked up and grinned.
“Cook,” he bellowed. “Welcome. Sit down, man.” He nodded cordially toward Seb. “Sebastiano. You look well.” Teach had always had a fondness for Seb, and Cook couldn’t help but wonder at their relationship. Rumor had it that Teach had upward of a dozen “wives” in different ports throughout the islands, not to mention several in Europe, so Cook knew it was unlikely that they had been intimate. Still, when Teach turned his brilliant blue eyes on Seb and locked gazes, Cook saw his chance.
“We’re looking for a berth, Captain,” he said quickly.
Teach beamed and clapped Seb on the back. “Well, my friends, you’re welcome aboard the Revenge,” he declared. “We set sail day after next.”
Cook exchanged a triumphant look with Seb. “Didn’t I tell you, querido?” he murmured into Seb’s ear. “Today is our lucky day!”
On Board the Revenge
COOK stepped onto the wooden planking that ran alongside the quay, squirming under the weight of his duffel. Seb was following close behind, and he murmured his appreciation as they drew alongside the Revenge. A single-mast, shallow-draught sloop sturdily fitted with twelve guns, she was as trim as any ship Cook had ever sailed.
Captain Teach was already on board, and Cook had to admit that he cut an impressive figure. He stood some six feet tall and was dressed in a crimson frock coat; his deep-set eyes were sharp and intelligent, and his dark, bushy beard covered much of his face and was so long that Teach had to braid it to keep it from flying about in the stiff island breeze. Some of the crew had taken to calling him Blackbeard behind his back, though there were those who whispered that he had actually invented the nickname himself in order to augment his growing reputation. Even in dock he wore a brace of pistols, and his polished cutlass hung from a scabbard by his side. He was a formidable man, and it was easy to see why he was fast becoming the most feared pirate on the high seas.
As they climbed aboard, they were greeted by William Howard, Revenge’s quartermaster, and when he’d rounded up all the new recruits, he solemnly pulled out a leather-bound ledger. “Artic
les of Agreement, gentlemen,” he said. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud. “That every man shall obey his commander in all respects; that no man shall dice or game at cards for money; that pistol and cutlass shall always be clean and fit for engagement….” Cook tuned out Howard’s droning voice, already well-versed in the rules that were designed to maintain discipline on board. When Howard finished reading, he held up a tattered Bible. “Do you so swear?” he demanded. The assembled men mumbled their assent. Howard nodded. “Those who can, sign your name; the rest of you make your mark.”
Once they had signed the articles and stowed their duffels, they joined the rest of the crew in getting the ship sea-ready. As they carried fresh supplies on board, Cook weighed up the men who would be their companions in the long weeks ahead. Numbering over seventy on the Revenge alone, three out of every ten were Negroes captured from the European slave ships that regularly crossed the Atlantic Ocean. They kept to themselves, silent, watchful men who carried the scars of their brutal pasts on their backs. The others were mostly British privateers, like Cook, who chose to continue pillaging even though they were no longer protected by their government’s letters of marque; or former Royal Navy seamen escaping the harsh discipline and scant rewards of serving under the pleasure of His Majesty King George I. Like Sebastiano, the rest hailed from a dozen different seafaring nations, their ancient grudges forgotten in the pursuit of adventure and riches.
After an hour humping barrels under the pounding sun, Cook had sweated through his cotton shirt and knew his face was bright red with exertion. Seb seemed unaffected, swinging from dock to deck as lithely as a dancer.
“Your friend is causing quite a stir.” Cook’s head whipped around to find Philip Morton, the ship’s master gunner, standing by his side. Cook cast about and noticed several pairs of eyes surreptitiously following Seb’s progress. “Do you two travel together?” Morton continued. Something about the way he asked the question and the way his eyes fixed so intently on Seb made Cook think that the words had some subtler, underlying meaning.
He glanced sidelong, trying to read Morton’s expression. “We shared many a berth in the past year,” he replied carefully.
Morton turned his head, looking directly into Cook’s eyes. “He’s a very fine-looking man, your friend.” This time the meaning was clear, and a flash of understanding sparked between them.
“He is,” Cook replied, then added, “my friend,” aware that his own emphasis left little doubt about the nature of his relationship with Seb.
Morton’s brows arched speculatively. “I look forward to getting to know you better,” he said, and with a lingering look at Seb he turned and sauntered off.
When Cook looked back, Seb had slowed his pace and was wiping his brow with the edge of his sleeve. He glanced up, flashing an impish grin, his eyes bright with exhilaration, and Cook’s breath stuttered as an unfamiliar rush of uncertainty swept through him. It seemed impossible that this exotic beauty had chosen to share everything with him; after all, Cook considered himself a plain enough man. Unlike Seb’s luxuriant crowning glory, he kept his hair close-cropped; his skin was pale and burned easily, while Seb’s dark complexion glowed with health and vitality; his vivid blue eyes could appear cold and hard, where Seb’s were filled with warmth and humor.
“Teo?”
Cook was startled to find Seb standing next to him, a concerned look on his face. He managed a reassuring smile. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just sun-struck.”
“You know better, Cook,” Seb admonished. “Go cool off below deck.”
“Aye,” Cook said, shaking himself out of his momentary lapse. “Seb….”
Sebastiano turned back, frowning slightly at Cook’s hesitation. He felt foolish, wanting to express how profoundly Seb stirred him but unable to find the words. In the end he shrugged. “I’m glad we found a place together,” he finished lamely.
Seb smiled. “Yo también, mi amigo,” he agreed.
They worked steadily until the captain gave the signal; then the crew disembarked to swarm the taverns and whorehouses one last time. Teach had lent Cook an advance against his share of their first prize, and he spent the early evening settling the markers he and Seb had run up at the taverns along the waterfront. Their last port of call was The Dog and Duck, and Cook had just pressed three silver pesos into the innkeeper’s sweating palm when he felt a hand slide around his waist and fondle his cock; a moment later, Rosie was whispering an invitation into his ear. His prick thickened at the sultry promise in her voice, and he turned and tugged her against his body. Her reddened mouth found his, and he kissed her deeply, his rising excitement pressing against her sticky petticoats. “One for the road?” she breathed. “On the house.” Cook shivered as her warm breath tickled his ear.
He glanced over her shoulder to catch Seb’s attention, stiffening when he saw that Philip Morton had slid into his place next to Sebastiano and was pouring a large measure of rum into Seb’s glass. Morton leaned in to say something directly into Seb’s ear, and Seb drew back and smiled shyly. Morton seemed momentarily dazzled; then his arm came up casually, and he draped it across Seb’s shoulders and leaned back in to continue their conversation.
Cook backed away from Rosie’s busy hands, muttering, “Another time, darling.” He pushed her aside brusquely, ignoring her foul-mouthed protest, and strode across the room. Seb nodded a greeting as Cook sat down opposite Morton, who pushed the bottle of rum across the table toward him.
“No luck for Rosie tonight?” he asked.
“I have better things to do tonight,” Cook answered coolly, his eyes flickering toward Seb.
“I see.” Morton arched an eyebrow, and his arm slipped off Seb’s shoulders. Cook stood abruptly, startling the other two men.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
“You won’t stay for another drink?” Morton asked, his question directed at Seb.
Seb shook his head and rose.
“Pity,” Morton said. His eyes traveled the length of Seb’s body, and it was all Cook could do not to drag his friend out of the tavern. As it was, he shoved a little too hard, and once outside Seb stopped suddenly, shaking Cook’s hands off him.
“What was that about?” he demanded. “It’s our last night in port!”
“Exactly,” Cook said. “Our last chance to be alone.” He held up the bottle of rum that he’d swiped from Morton’s table. “I settled the account with our landlord. I’m sure he’d let us have the room one last night.”
A slow smile spread across Seb’s face, but then he sobered. “You won’t see a woman for weeks…” he started, but Cook waved him off.
“I don’t care about that,” he said, surprised at the truth of it. Everything he wanted right now was standing in front of him, eager, willing, and more skilled in pleasure than any whore he’d ever paid for. He backed Seb into a darkened corner and nuzzled his neck, then sucked hard, wanting to leave a mark. Pressing his lips to Seb’s ear, he whispered, “I want you to fuck me.” Seb shuddered at the request, so uncommon between them that he drew back and stared into Cook’s eyes, as though checking for sincerity. Obviously satisfied with what he saw, he licked his lips and nodded.
Half an hour later, Cook found himself face down on a stained mattress with Seb’s swollen cock pumping its warm load into him. When Seb withdrew and settled beside him, Cook lay on his belly, balancing the knife edge between pleasure and pain, refusing to look too closely at the strange possessiveness that had overtaken him when Morton had turned hot and hungry eyes on Seb.
The Blackbirder
“SAIL two points on the starboard bow!”
The lookout’s voice caused a flurry of activity as men crowded to the side of the ship, shading their eyes against the midmorning sun in the hope of spotting the potential prize. Still almost twenty miles to the southeast, they wouldn’t be able to determine the vessel’s purpose for hours yet.
“Bring her about, Mr. Howard.” Captain Teach’s voice carr
ied clearly over the excited babble of the men, his instructions echoing from bow to stern.
They had slipped out of harbor three days ago, as soon as the wind had shifted, leading a convoy of vessels past Hog’s Island and Silver Cay and into the vast blue ocean. The ships had scattered once they’d navigated the cays, each taking a different path to try its luck. Revenge traveled in consort with Teach’s smaller sloop, the Sea Nymph, and was presently patrolling off the coast of Martinique.
Cook glanced sideward as Seb shouldered in beside him. “A three-master,” Seb said, his eyes trained on what appeared to Cook to be an empty ocean.
Minutes later, Teach pulled out his spyglass. “She’s French,” the captain said. “A three-master,” he confirmed, and Seb winked at Cook, looking justifiably smug. “I count seven guns each port and starboard,” Teach continued. “Mr. Howard, run up French colors. Let’s see if we can lure the little lady in.”
One of the men rummaged in an old sea chest and pulled the French flag from a tangle of other nations’ colors, running the moth-eaten scrap of cloth up the flagpole, where it snapped to attention in the oncoming wind.
Teach trained his spyglass back on the ship, which plowed on steadily through the waves making no effort to evade them, obviously reassured by their false colors. “La Concorde,” Teach said slowly, reading the name off the ship’s side. “She’s fast,” he murmured appreciatively. “A blackbirder, I’ll warrant.”
Cook shuddered. Of all the ships carrying merchandise across the Atlantic, he hated the slave ships and their wretched cargo most of all: the stench of cowed and terrified humanity, the surly crew, weakened by scurvy and dysentery after months at sea, and the querulous officers, watching their profits literally disappear before their eyes. He caught Seb’s eye, easily reading the revulsion on his friend’s face. Not many of their kind were keen on the blackbirders; if nothing else, they carried little in the way of booty outside of their human cargo, which was of precious little use to seafaring men. But Teach had obviously taken a liking to the trim vessel; he signaled Howard, who shouted, “Make ready, men,” and Cook hurried to join the rest of the crew in preparing for attack.
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