"Picking Lieutenant Gillette's pocket in broad daylight? A bit. . . obvious,
even for you, Sparrow. One might almost think you were looking to be
arrested. . ." James grabbed the wild hair and pulled Sparrow in close; his
voice dropping to a whisper. "I know why you're here." Sparrow made no
denial. James' fingers gripped tightly, a parody of a lover's embrace. "I
know what you want, why you came sniffing around again."
Sparrow's expression wasn't as mocking as it had been last time. Perhaps he
was beginning to realize who had the upper hand this round - James smugly
recalled the key tucked safely out of Sparrow's reach - and all these
thoughts of last time and this time brought to mind the ominous possibility
of a next time, which was a thought that James could not allow
himself to have. This was the last time, by God. He would get the darkness
out of his system, put this madness that Sparrow had infected him with back
where it belonged, and be done with it.
One push was all it took and Sparrow dropped to his knees, as graceful as
ever, despite the shackles on his wrists. Then he was using that pretty
mouth on James, and it was better than any whore, because this had been paid
for in spite and force and humiliation - coins far dearer than the gold he'd
traded for this sort of thing in the past. Sparrow looked up at him, his
eyes daring, as he did something devastating with his tongue. He was too
good at this, and James closed his eyes and sped up, thrusting hard. He
didn't want Sparrow's clever tricks; he just wanted to use Sparrow's mouth
to bring himself off - hot and wet and anonymous. His blood was pounding in
his ears, and the rhythm it beat was "wrong, wrong, wrong," but this
reminder only spurred him closer to his release, just as the stone wall of
the cell gritting into the palm of his hand somehow added to the pleasure.
It didn't take long, and, more than anything, it was the sight of Sparrow,
in chains and at his feet, that pushed James over the edge.
When he came, it was almost painful in its intensity. He jerked back and let
it splash across Sparrow's face, sticky and dripping. Sparrow made no move
to wipe his face, just licked his lips and stood, light on the balls of his
feet, and rubbed his face against James' neck, nuzzling into him and
smearing the mess all over the front of his uniform. Before James knew what
he was doing, his hand was in Sparrow's breeches, and he was licking
Sparrow's skin clean, salt and musk and rough stubble under his tongue. Then
Sparrow was begging and mewling and the sound cut right through James.
He pushed Sparrow against the wall, stroking him hard with one hand, and
using the other to muffle those helpless sounds he was making. James wanted
everything he could take from Sparrow; he wanted to break him, to make him-
"Mine." And he was saying the word over and over again in Sparrow's ear.
Sparrow was biting on one hand and spurting into the other, and James felt
as though he was the one who had come undone, as though Sparrow's climax had
torn something vital from him, and he'd never get it back. He couldn't let
him go, and he couldn't keep him, and God damn it, what was he going to
do with the man?