Curvy for Him: The Princess and the Pirate

by Winters, Annabelle

  “Perhaps you are dead,” I say softly to the Princess hiding behind the dark eyes of the cold Queen. “But I wasn’t raised Greek Orthodox for nothing. Hold on, Princess. You’re about to be reborn.”

  With a grunt I hoist her over my shoulder with ease, holding her kicking legs firmly in place as I storm through the back door of my homemade shack, heading straight for the private beach down the trail, away from the watchful eyes of her bodyguards and attendants. This is no longer about anyone else, I decide. This is about us now. The sea has brought us together, and the sea will bring her together.

  Soon I’m knee-deep in the surf, warm waters sloshing around me in a frothy frenzy as the Princess kicks and thrashes. But she can’t break free. She might not understand, but a sailor understands how chance works, how fate works, how destiny works. The first thought is always the right thought, because that’s your instinct talking, that’s the eternal talking, that’s the divine speaking.

  And my first thought was that she’s mine.

  Mine to protect.

  Mine to love.

  Mine to heal, to put back together again, to make reborn.

  Then without hesitation I dunk her into the swirling sea, all the way beneath the warm water. I bring her back up in a moment, holding her firmly as she spits seawater all over my face, the salt stinging my broken lip, the pain electrifying me as I look into her eyes.

  And then I kiss her. I do it without thinking, without talking, without doubt.

  Because she’s mine.

  And this is our goddamn story now.

  Mine and hers.

  Me and her.

  The Princess and the Pirate.

  Now and forever.

  7

  DAARI

  It seems like I’ve been underwater forever, and when I’m pulled up I scream like a newborn babe who’s just popped out from the womb, wet and glistening, my lungs filling with air for the first time.

  It takes a minute for me to understand where I am, and when I finally blink the seawater from my eyes I gasp at the sight of Desh holding me close, his lip bleeding bright red, his face covered in the saltwater I just spat all over him, his eyes focused on me like nothing else matters, like nothing else exists, just him and me.

  I blink again as I try to remember how I got here on this beach. Last I remember I was talking to my attendants and bodyguards, calming them down, assuring them that none of us were in danger, that we were going to stay hidden until we got some clarity. These were my personal attendants, and none of them ever interacted with my stepmother over the years. So they agreed and headed back to the ship at my orders, taking the dinghy back to where we’d dropped anchor a few hundred yards off the beach. I’d watched them head back, and then everything went black. Another panic attack? It had to be, even though I haven’t had them for years. Not since . . . since . . . since . . .

  I almost black out again as I feel splinters of memories try to push into my consciousness like shards of glass, and I gasp as I struggle in Desh’s strong arms. I don’t know what those memories are, but I can feel their emotional gravity weighing down on me, squeezing me, crushing me to death.

  I must be dead, I think as I fight back memories that feel so dark I wonder if the sun just disappeared. I still can’t see those memories, but I feel them digging into me like claws, deeper, harder, tearing me up from the inside, ripping me apart from within, splitting me down the middle as I struggle and scream and then just give up, deciding that maybe I’m not strong enough, that if I’m not already dead then I want to die.

  But then Desh kisses me, and I feel a spark of light blaze through me, pushing away the darkness of those hidden memories like the sun blasting through storm clouds, a lighthouse shining through the rain. Suddenly I don’t want to die, and my eyes flick open and then shut tight as Desh’s warm lips smother mine, his big hands pull me into him, his large body holds me close like I’m his, really his, his in a way I’ve never been anyone’s, never wanted to be anyone’s.

  “You’re mine, Daari,” he whispers as he breaks from the kiss and pulls back my wet hair, cupping my face in his hands and then leaning in for another kiss that tastes sweet and salty, tangy and tart, the clean seawater mixing with his blood like it’s a magic potion that’s cleansing me from the inside, purging what’s rotten in me, giving new life to a part of me that died years ago.

  I nod up at him, my eyes wide, my heart full, my face breaking into a smile even though I don’t understand how or why I’m feeling this way. I don’t know this man, but I know I’m his. This man doesn’t know me, but in his dark green eyes I can see that he understands me, understands the darkness that lives inside me, wants to kill that darkness because he knows what it’s done to me. He wants to protect me. He wants to save me. He wants to heal me.

  “I read somewhere that we are born with the ability to heal ourselves,” he says, holding me close as the warm waters swirl around my legs, lapping up against my thighs. “That the human mind and body can cure itself of anything. You’re going to be fine, Daari. I’m going to take care of you until we figure our way through this.”

  I blink, frowning as I try to understand what he’s talking about. “Through what?” I say. “Did the messenger finally talk? Did he tell you who hired you to sink my ship.”

  “Yes,” says Desh, his gaze softening as he pets my hair. I see a flash of pity in his expression, and it puzzles me. “Yes, Daari. He did.”

  “Well?” I say, raising my eyebrows when Desh stays quiet. “Do I have to interrogate you now? Did the messenger finally talk? Did he tell you who hired you to sink my ship.”

  Desh takes a long breath. “You really don’t remember, do you? The separation is so strong that you really don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?” I say, frowning harder as I stare absentmindedly at Desh’s broken lip. “What happened to your lip, anyway? Did the messenger break free and hit you in the face?”

  Desh snorts and shakes his head. Then he reaches down and takes my hand in his, bringing it up between us and gently turning my wrist so I can see my own knuckles. My knuckles that have recently-peeled skin on them.

  “What?” I say, glancing at my skinned knuckles and then back at Desh. He’s gone quiet again, that look of pity back in his eyes. I hate pity. It annoys me. I’m about to pull away from him and simply demand that he answer my question, but just then he finally speaks.

  “Diraa,” he says softly, his eyes narrowing as he grips my wrists as if he’s preparing to restrain me. “Queen Diraa.”

  “Where?” I say in bewilderment, wondering if my stepmother arrived here somehow. I look around, suddenly feeling dizzy as a strange thought comes to me: I don’t know what my stepmother looks like! I almost panic as I reach for an image of her face, but I just can’t find it in my brain! What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember what my own stepmother looks like?! I know her, of course. I’ve known her for ten years, ever since my real mother died and my father remarried. We were never close—my father never took her with him when he left the Royal Palace, and she was not allowed outside the king’s private wing when he was home. Our interaction was always minimal, but certainly I know what she looks like, don’t I? Did I lose too many brain cells in my panic attack? Did I destroy the part of my brain that can remember people’s faces?

  “Where, Desh?” I say in panic, no longer looking around as I feel a sickness rise up in me, the dark claws of those buried memories digging up through the dirt of my psyche, bubbling up in the cauldron of my mind. There are tears rolling down my cheeks as I see the pain on Desh’s handsome face. “Where?” I say, my voice breaking into sobs as I try to force back the understanding, push away the realization, deny what perhaps I’ve always known.

  And I swallow hard as I feel it in the background.

  Feel her in the background.

  Queen Diraa herself, the part o
f me that was born when my father took Princess Daari as his bride, took his own daughter as his bride, took me as his bride.

  “No,” I blubber, shaking my head as I look up into Desh’s eyes. “No. You’re lying. This is a trick. A ruse. A dream. A goddamn nightmare.” I look around wildly as I gasp for air. “I’m dead, aren’t I? Please tell me I’m dead, Desh. Please let me be dead!”

  “Maybe you are dead in a way. Maybe that’s why you did this,” Desh says softly even as he holds me tighter against him. “You ordered your own assassination—or at least Diraa did. Maybe Queen Diraa knew you didn’t need her anymore, didn’t need her to protect you from your father. She knew it was time for her to go, for her to let you become a whole person again. It was time for Diraa to die.”

  “But . . . but that doesn’t make sense!” I say as I swallow hard, my mind spinning as the pieces fall in place so fast I almost throw up. “She would know that killing me would also kill herself, wouldn’t she?”

  Desh shrugs. “Maybe.” He pauses and takes a breath. “Or maybe since she was born from your subconscious, your instinct, your intuition, she knew I wouldn’t kill you. Maybe she knew that bringing you to me was what needed to happen.”

  I stare up at Desh, my mind almost breaking in two with utter confusion. “Are you insane too? What in Allah’s name does that mean? Desh, even you didn’t know you weren’t going to kill me until the last minute! How the hell would my . . .” I gulp as I reach for the right word. “My . . . stepmother,” I finally say, doing my best not to lose my shit again even though to not lose my shit means I’ve accepted that I am indeed bat-shit crazy! “I mean, how could anyone know that we . . . that you . . . that I . . . that this . . .”

  “How does a sailor know if the wind will change? How does a seagull know where the next island is? How does a whale know it needs to swim eight thousand miles to find its mate?” Desh whispers. “Instinct, Princess. Instinct is the ocean within us, with currents that will carry us if we just sit back and allow ourselves to float along.”

  “Carry us where?” I say, my voice breaking again as my head hurts from trying to make sense of what in Allah’s name is happening. But even though my brain is on the verge of exploding, I’m feeling a strange calm flow through my body as I listen to Desh’s voice—listen to not the words he speaks but the sound itself.

  “Carry us to our destiny,” he whispers back. “Just like instinct carried a sailor home a thousand years ago, instinct will carry us home, Diraa. Your stepmother fulfilled her destiny—her destiny to protect you, to protect your innocence even as she gave up hers, to guard your light even as she confronted the darkness for you. Queen Diraa was created by your subconscious, and that’s where instinct lives, where our connection to the currents of fate and destiny exists. The part of you that is Queen Diraa understood that it was time for her to die, time for Princess Daari to take over, to step out into the light, unscathed and perfect, innocent and untouched.”

  “Untouched,” I whisper as fresh tears pour down my cheeks. But this time I’m smiling and not screaming. This time I’m taking slow, peaceful breaths and not short gasps like I’m suffocating. I still feel those memories inside, but I somehow feel my stepmother standing guard, protecting her daughter with the last of her life-force, waiting for her to step out into the light, waiting for the Princess to become a Queen, the child to become an adult, the girl to become a woman . . .

  . . . to choose to become a woman.

  “Yes,” I whisper, nodding up at Desh as I say the word again. It’s a simple word, but it carries a power that almost shatters me. I’m choosing this, I realize as Desh’s eyes well with tears too. I’m choosing to step into the light, to take this man as my mate, to let him take me as his. This is the first time. I am unscathed and perfect, unbroken and untouched, his and his alone.

  I’m his, I think as Desh leans in and kisses me with the gentleness of the morning after a hurricane. I’m his, and this is our story now.

  Yes, this is our story now.

  8

  DESH

  “Yes,” she says, and the word almost brings me to my knees as I look upon her pretty round face, see the pain behind her big brown eyes, feel the strength in this woman who somehow survived what would have destroyed most others, who somehow preserved her innocence, held on to what was pure and untouched inside her—untouchable inside her.

  I nod as I lean in and kiss her. I do it gently, carefully, tenderly even as the arousal courses through my body. The warm waters flow around our legs like the universe is giddy with joy, and I hear Daari giggle as we break from that deep kiss to take a breath.

  “It tickles,” she whispers, her brown eyes dancing, her skin dark with color, her lips wet from my kiss. “But I love it. I always loved the sea. I used to read sea stories all the time when I was a girl.”

  “Pirates, I hope?” I whisper, smiling as I lean in and gently nibble on her neck.

  “Yes,” she murmurs, leaning her head back as I slide my arm around her waist and hold her tight as I move lower down her neck. “Filthy pirates with eye-patches and parrots and hooks for hands.”

  “No eye-patch, parrot, or hooks,” I whisper as I move closer to her breasts, my breath catching as her cleavage comes into view, making my eyes glaze over. “But I am indeed filthy.”

  “Yes, I see that,” she says, giggling and then gasping as my mouth closes on her left nipple and I suck hard through the cloth. She goes quiet suddenly, her nipple hardening beneath her robe, her back arching as I slowly move us up along the smooth sand, to where the water just about comes to our ankles.

  Gently I lay Daari down on the golden sand of our private beach, smiling as I see her glance around like she’s worried someone will see.

  “No one’s watching,” I whisper, propping myself up on my arms and looking down upon her. “Just the sun and the clouds.”

  “And you,” she says, blinking up at me and then looking down like she’s shy.

  “I can put my eye-patch on if you want,” I say with a grin.

  She giggles again, looking back into my eyes, her face glowing with happiness. “We’ll save that for the honeymoon,” she says.

  “Ah, so we’re married now?” I say, raising my left eyebrow. The question comes out casually, like it’s so damned clear we’re together that it’s not even a real question. “Does that mean I’m a desert king now?”

  She giggles and shakes her head. “No. It means I am a pirate queen now. Perhaps I will not go back to the desert. It does smell like camel, after all.”

  “I love the smell of camel,” I growl as I lean in and sniff her neck.

  “Wow, you are such a sweet talker. You really know how to make a girl feel sexy. Get off me, you brute. The wedding is off!”

  “My my, how fickle we are,” I whisper, reaching between us and running the back of my hand over her breasts until I feel her nipples harden into points beneath her robe. Then I firmly grasp her breasts, squeezing hard as she moans and arches her neck back.

  We both go silent as I pinch her big nipples and then slowly open her robe from the front. My arousal has been climbing steadily, and now the blood is pounding in my head, throbbing in my loins, pulsing through my body as Daari’s smooth brown cleavage comes into view. Her eyelids are fluttering as I push her white bikini top up over her breasts and pinch her bare nipples, and I know that we’re done talking.

  Gently I suck each nipple, my cock hardening to full mast as I feel her dark red nubs stiffen like arrowheads in my mouth. The world around us is quiet as I slowly undress her, taking her robe off carefully even though a part of me wants to rip it away. But I grit my teeth and remind myself that I need to take it slow. This is important. This is meaningful. This is a girl becoming a woman, and it’s all about her. Her needs. Her comfort. Her pleasure.

  Daari shudders as I lay her back down on the warm sand, blinking and then c
losing her eyes again as I run my hands down her naked sides, tracing a path along her curves, down to her wide hips. I lock my fingers under her bikini bottoms and slowly begin to roll them down her thighs, my cock almost exploding in my breeches as her dark triangle comes into view.

  “Oh, hell, Daari,” I groan, my voice trembling as her scent rises up to me. “You’re so beautiful. So goddamn beautiful.” Slowly I roll her bikini bottoms down her thick thighs, groaning at the sight of her strong legs spread for a moment, giving me a fleeting view of her beautiful slit, pink and perfect. I want to push my face in there, slide my tongue deep inside her, smell her musk, taste her sweetness. “May I?” I ask. “May I, Princess?”

  She nods, and I lower my head to her crotch, kissing her dark curls and then slowly pushing my tongue through. She tenses up as I make first contact with her clit, and I lick her gently but firmly, running the flat of my tongue up and down along her slit until I feel her shudder, tremble, tense up, and then come.

  “Ya Allah,” she gasps, her head rising up off the sand as her wetness flows all over my tongue and lips. “What are you doing to me?”

  I don’t answer. I’m losing control, and I start to quickly flick my tongue over her throbbing clit before sliding it deep into her, curling it up against the front wall of her vagina, making her come again, this time all over my goddamn face and chin. And then I’m drinking from her as she screams and bucks her hips up into my face, my tongue driving in and out, my big hands firmly beneath her round ass, my senses filled with the divine aroma of her sex.