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The Evil Lady E	By : EvilE Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Het - Male/Female > Jack/Elizabeth Views: 5995 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
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- 12
Chapter 11: Dancing in the Moonlight

The sky had lightened to a soft blue-gray, casting an unearthly, surreal glow on the scene. The moon was still bright and a mist seemed to roll in from the ocean, surrounding the two people who stood facing each other on the deck. Elizabeth's breathing was ragged, desperate, each gasp audible. Still she clutched her sword tightly and assumed fighting stance, watching Jack's every move.

He feinted high and then swung around to shoulder-height, just as Elizabeth had raised her sword to block. His blade reached its target: her palm.

He pulled the blade back sharply, and Elizabeth gasped in pain and closed her fist, her sword dropping to the deck and bouncing, once, twice. Then it was still. Blood dripped, spotting the deck.

Her eyes were squeezed shut for a moment, only a fraction of a moment, as she assimilated the pain of her palm being sliced open, but Jack had already launched an attack. He dove for her, knocking her flat on the deck.

Another gasp of fear from her, and Jack had kicked her sword away with his toe as he wriggled higher on top of her, the weight of his body crushing her against the wood of the deck. In a panic she thrust her hand wildly against his face, trying to claw at him and keep him from getting closer, but he turned his head, moving his nose to the side, and her bloody palm slid over his damp cheek, smearing his face with her blood in a crooked line, like a pagan warrior. She tried again to push at his face with that hand, smacking him flat under the nose, but he shocked her by opening his mouth and running the flat of his tongue along the cut, which burned and soothed at the same instant, as it sent waves of heat rocketing through her insides. He fastened his lips around the center of the slice and sucked gently, and her arm trembled as a terrible weakness seemed to spread from the focal point of that wound, where Jack's hot, insistent mouth was still sealed to her.

He drew back suddenly, and grabbed her wrist in his left hand, pinning it swiftly down against the deck as he raised himself on one knee between her thighs.

“You've lost your sword,” he said in a low, growling voice. “Call 'mercy'.”

“No,” she breathed defiantly, staring up into his face. He was handsome, she acknowledged reluctantly, so handsome he took her breath away, as she ran her eyes over his red scarf, elegant, high bronzed forehead, fine cheekbones now oddly smeared with her blood, and sensual, full lips. Lips that were headed for hers. She closed her eyes.

He kissed her again, just as passionately as before, his tongue entering her to taste every inch of her mouth, thoroughly. Only this time, she detected a trace of something salty, somewhat bitter. Blood, she realized. Her blood.

He raised his knee to grind his thigh against her sex. His leg was hard and unyielding through the rough black fabric of his breeches, and Elizabeth was reminded that Jack was lean and muscular under all those baggy clothes. That muscled thigh felt so good against her, so satisfying and strong, that she helplessly lifted her hips to rub herself against it, the sensation sparking a throbbing need that spread from her warming loins, threatening to engulf her.

She heard a rumble deep in his chest as his left hand released her wrist and grasped the top closure of the man's shirt she wore, prying the buttons apart impatiently. After two of them were undone his patience seemed to snap and he ripped the rest apart violently, several buttons flying off to skitter and bounce along the deck. The sides of the shirt fell apart, and in an instant, Jack's mouth had left hers and was moving, open, over her breast, before closing over her nipple.

He bit her, lightly, and she cried out, overwhelmed by the scratch of his beard against her soft skin and the flashes of lightning heat that cascaded rapidly downward from his grip on her breast. He suckled and pulled, lifting her breast away from her body, before letting go to allow it to bounce back and settle. She found his eyes with hers, and the hungry look in them washed over her, causing her to grind more urgently against his thigh. She was aching, needed something, something he could give her...

“Jack, please,” had escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

“Very proper of you to beg nicely,” he said, moving up to whisper against her ear in a deep, gravelly tone. “But unless it's 'mercy', I can't help you.”

His words found their way into the mist that was fogging her brain, and she suddenly remembered the terms of the fight, and the reason she was there. Could she really have forgotten all that in just a few short minutes, at the touch of some man's hands and mouth and body? Not just any man, she berated herself. Captain Jack Sparrow. The morally ambiguous, and completely charming, coward.

Instantly desperate again, she lifted the right arm he had released and brought it across his chest between them, and with a high-pitched grunt of anguish, pushed as hard as she could, toppling him off her to the side. She turned to face him as he got clumsily to his feet, his sword arm outstretched. With a leap and a hard kick, her booted foot connected with his wrist, which slammed into the deck rail. He grunted in pain, and his sword loosened in his grip and dropped.

“Bugger!”

In another instant she had grabbed it and held it up. He raised his eyes, still trying to process what was happening. His back was against the deck rail. She laid the pointed tip beneath his ear.

“Now your sword is gone. Mercy, Captain Sparrow?”

He smiled and his eyes grew large as he looked down the sword at her, her open shirt lifted by the breeze, exposing her generous curves to his eyes. “Very well done, darling. But no.” And he spun away in the opposite direction, tucking his head down and rolling on the deck to get by her.

She followed him, making wild slashing attempts with the sword, which was slightly too heavy for her, and not the one she was used to. The searing pain in her palm also made it hard to maintain her grip and make her blows accurate. He ducked and dodged and weaved, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“If you wanted to play with my sword, Lizzy, you only had to say the word. Let's go to my cabin and I'll show you - “

A ripping noise pierced the air as she brought the sword down on him with two hands, and he turned sideways, avoiding the blow just in time. It caught his trousers, rending them from right below the waistband to just above the middle of his left thigh. “Careful of the goods, love.”

Just then the Elizabeth pitched and rolled, and Jack swayed on his feet, maintaining his balance. But Elizabeth's sea legs were less developed, and she stumbled sideways, catching her foot on a coil of rope. She fell forward, her sword hand outstretched.

Jack was upon her in a second, grabbing her already-injured hand and lifting it to slam it, forcefully, against the deck. She cried out but did not release the sword. He gripped her hand more forcefully, lifted it and slammed it again, harder. She screamed.

The sword fell from her hand, and Jack snatched it back, only the handle was too slippery with sweat and blood for him to hang on, and it slid from his fingers to clatter on the deck. She reached for it, crawling on the ground, but he landed a kick to her stomach and she sprawled backward with a grunt. The ship pitched again and the sword slid down the deck, rolling in a circle toward the opposite end, far out of reach of the both of them.

She stared up at him from where she was now crouched, and he towered over her. “Mercy?” he said softly.

“No,” she answered, straightening to her feet. She drew back her arm for a punch, and swung with all her might, but Jack caught her fist in both his hands and pivoted with her momentum, crushing her against him. His right hand came down to squeeze her waist, sending a fresh thrill through her aching body. She tried to stomp on his toe, but he scooted his foot out of the way, dragging her with him, as though they were dancing a waltz.

And they were dancing. A dance of passion. A dance of death. It brought them, struggling and pushing against each other, to the center of the deck, just under the main mast.

She secretly delighted in the feel of his hands on her, even when they were fighting, and she felt so connected to him, even more than ever before. It was so unusually wonderful when he touched her. Even if he only touched her to kill her. But it was too late to turn back now.

“Oh, look where we are, Lizzy,” he said, grasping her arms and sliding his hands down to her wrists, pinning her arms against her sides. “Jus' like on the Pearl. What d'you say, a kiss for old times' sake?”

When he lowered his mouth to hers, Elizabeth was already moving to meet him, and their mouths met and mated with raw, unbridled passion. The ship creaked beneath them and Elizabeth pressed even closer against him, leaning into him for balance and warmth. He let his hands fall to her sides, and one of her arms came up to wrap around his neck as they kissed fervently, as though they were starving for the taste of each other. She leaned even closer against him by shifting her weight to one foot, rubbing her body against his, her shirt open to her sides, his hands moving inside to slide over her bare back. Her right shoulder dug into his chest as she straightened that arm, sliding it down over his stomach and abdomen to brush against the bare skin of his thigh that had been exposed by the cut in his trousers. He shuddered at the touch of her soft fingers, so close to his loins. He was ready to beg her to touch him, there, when he felt something poking into his neck. Something cool. And oddly pointy.

He opened his eyes and looked down the left side of his face. He saw Elizabeth's bloodied hand, holding a dagger to his throat, which she must have just withdrawn from her boot.

“I thought you'd never fall for that again,” she said, her lips still parted, a hair's breadth from his own.

“Who says I did? Maybe I knew that's what you were doin', but decided it was worth it.”

“Mercy then?” she whispered, brushing her wet, open lips over his, unable to move any farther from him.

“You know, a lady with a hidden weapon's a man's worst nightmare,” he said softly, his lips still dancing, lightly, with hers.

She opened her eyes to look at him, a little perplexed, knowing he was insinuating something, but she knew not what. “Is that so? Why is that?”

He grinned against her lips. “Obviously, you haven't spent enough time in Tortuga.” He kissed her in earnest, then, again, a gentle, slow kiss that was only interrupted by the sharp point of the dagger digging into his neck.

“Mercy?” she whispered.

“No. Do it,” Jack said calmly. “Do it now. Cut my throat. Spill my blood all over the deck.”

Her grip on the weapon tightened. “I can. I will. But I don't have to, if you'll say 'mercy' and end this.”

“You had better, because if you don't, I'm going to kill you, my Lady E. Mark my words.” His gently spoken words held the bite of truth, and they sank into her brain with a disturbing finality. And yet... his lips were so warm, so close, and his body so hot and firm against her, and that part of him, still hard, digging into the flesh of her abdomen, making her cheeks flushed and eliciting a thrilling moisture in that secret part of her. Just one more kiss, she decided... just one more. And she raised her lips to his.

He seized them eagerly, his tongue plummeting into her mouth despite the sharp prick of metal, circling and weaving and mimicking every part of the dance they had just performed, holding promises of sensual delights they'd not gotten to explore. Not yet. Not unless he lived.

She moaned, the sound music to his ears, and he was again reminded of the sad progress of his doom. This was how it had all ended, the first time, with him so hot for her that all she had to do was cast a glance in his direction, and he'd practically fall all over himself just to get near her. And he realized, as he heard the tiny sounds she was making in her throat, that if he died in the next minute, he would die a happy man. Not a satisfied man, but a happy one nonetheless. He wondered if, on dark and lonely Caribbean nights, she would miss Jack Sparrow when he was gone, and there was no one to make her blood pound in her chest, as it was doing now, or stoke the delightful need between her thighs, the heat of which he could feel against his leg and could swear that he could almost, almost smell.

Then he heard a dull thump and wondered to himself if that was what death sounded like. He pulled his lips away from Elizabeth's for a moment, looking down to see the furious desire shaping her regally beautiful features, even more evident in the rapidly brightening dawn light. He looked left to see she had thrown the dagger down, so hard that it stuck, upright, between two boards of the deck. His lungs seemed to expand twice over with the force of his relief. But only for a moment.

Because the task he was most afraid of still lay before him.

He had promised to kill her. And that was one promise Captain Jack Sparrow intended to keep.
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The Evil Lady E