2. Gypsy

2

Gypsy

O ur mouths collide—teeth clashing, spit mixing, and more tongue than there should be. It’s messy, raw, and unrefined. Zayan’s fingers twist in my hair like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world, and it should be off-putting, the way he grips me so hard, but it’s not.

It’s perfect.

Rough, unpolished, anything but gentle.

I lunge at him, my fingers digging into the back of his neck, pulling myself closer until my legs lock around his waist.

“Hurry,” I breathe, my nails scraping down his skin, biting deep enough to draw blood.

He doesn’t flinch. If anything, it only fuels him. His grip tightens, fingers trailing down to grab my ass—rough, brutal, as if he’s holding back from tearing me apart. He touches me like he hates me, like he’s balancing on the edge of control, and any second, he might give in.

I can’t blame him. We’re supposed to be enemies. Marauder and Serpent. Rivals from the principle. The only thing that should exist between us is bloodshed, yet here we are, tangled together in the dark, breaking every rule our crews live by.

Maybe that’s why it feels so right. Maybe we’re both addicted to this dangerous edge, this tightrope between pleasure and ruin.

“Don’t rush me,” Zayan groans, his fingers sinking into my flesh with a hard squeeze. I squirm against him, trying to throw him off balance.

“I have to.”

Time is slipping through my fingers. There’s never enough of it. I want to lose myself in him, to drag this out until we’re both half-mad, but not tonight. Not now.

How do I convince him to do it, though? This beast of a man who thrives on taking his time, on savoring every second of our encounters…?

He doesn’t like to be rushed. Since the first time we crossed paths, Zayan has always taken his time—savoring every second, every stolen encounter, as if he’s memorizing me. And maybe he is. We meet too rarely for anything else. Every moment could be our last.

This time it really might be. This time it should be.

“Gypsy, just stop fighting me,” he breathes, trying to claim my mouth again, biting and battling for dominance.

But the day I stop fighting will be the day I die.

I shift my weight just right, using his own strength against him. His body hits the sand with a grunt, and I come down with him, the grains shifting beneath us like it was always meant to be this way.

“It’s you who should stop fighting me,” I whisper, tasting him on my lips—like salt, spice, and a hint of danger. He tastes too damn good for a man who should be my enemy.

“No,” he counters, a grin spreading across his face, defiant as always. “I’m on top tonight. You left me hanging last time. You owe me.”

I laugh, low and breathless, as I sit on him, feeling his cock press perfectly against me. I straighten up, taking in the sight of him sprawled beneath me, eyes dark and full of challenge.

His lips glisten, slick with the taste of us, and his hair’s already a wild mess from the fall. Red streaks of blood trail down his neck, scratches I left behind. His tattoos stretch across his chest like ink on canvas, while the moonlight catches the scars that crisscross his skin.

He’s beautiful. I’d never say it out loud, but he really, really is.

“I don’t owe you a damn thing, Cagney.”

To prove my point, I grind my hips against him slowly, deliberately. I know I should be faster about it, but this moment—this small, private victory—is mine. It’s all about showing him who’s in control. I press down harder, parting my lips as the pleasure hums through my veins.

His eyes… glazed and half-lidded, lock onto me like he’s in some trance. That’s how I know—I’ve got him. Zayan Cagney might be one of the most feared pirates around, but here, now, he’s mine. He won’t push me away.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, Gypsy,” he breathes. “Like you’re not real.”

And I believe him. Zayan Cagney is a beast of a man, sure. But I’m no slouch either. Strong, all muscle with curves that make men lose their wits. They say my eyes can pull a man in, and my sharp tongue leaves them defenseless.

I’m not short on admirers. But let’s be real, not everyone can handle me. Zayan barely can.

“That’s why you should submit to me,” I exhale. “Shouldn’t fight me.”

“And you’re funny too.”

I crack a smile.

“You’ve got to be mad if you think I’m letting sand get up my ass, Zayan,” I murmur breathlessly. To tease him, I grab a handful of sand and let it trickle over his chest. His pupils darken, and I can practically hear his teeth grind in frustration.

There’s only so much of my teasing this man can take. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin.

“And what makes you think I’ll let that happen to me?” he growls, voice tight as he squeezes harder.

I laugh again, soft and wicked, biting my lip. “Oh, you already do.”

I guide his hands higher, up to my chest, letting my sultriest smirk curl my lips. It’s a power I’ve never used on anyone else but him—a dangerous, seductive power. And it works. His mouth snaps shut, eyes locked on me like I’ve cast a spell.

He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers pinch my nipples, just hard enough to make my breath catch, and I reward him by pressing harder, moving faster. I want him to feel it, feel how I’ve got him right where I want him.

His body shudders, goosebumps rippling over his skin. I can see it in him—the surrender. It’s in his arms, his chest, his throat. He’s mine.

And my body reacts, my clit throbbing to the sight of him.

“Why’d you keep me waiting, Gypsy?” he asks, voice low and strained. “What was so damn important that you couldn’t meet me last month?”

“Does it really matter?” I counter, grinding against him, watching his resolve weaken. His grip tightens, harder this time, pinching my nipples in a way that sends sparks through my body. But it’s not enough to break me. Not yet.

“It does,” he growls.

The truth? There was nothing stopping me. I could’ve come, had the opportunity for it, but I didn’t. And why? Because this—whatever this is between us—it’s too dangerous. Too real.

“Oh, Zayan,” I murmur, feeling his hips shift beneath me, his cock sliding to just the right angle. My body aches for him, for that familiar fullness I’ve been denying myself. “I won’t tell you.”

He’s got a pull on me, something wicked. Something I call Evil because it only leads to trouble.

“Such a tease,” he exhales, but his voice is rougher now. The playfulness is fading.

I reach between us, fingers wrapping around his cock, guiding him toward where I need him most. But just as he’s about to fill me, he grabs my wrists, stopping me cold.

“Was it because you saw someone else?” he asks, his voice quiet but deadly, his grip tight around my hands. I freeze, heart pounding as he flips us, pinning me beneath him in the sand.

I gasp—he’s so quick.

My instincts scream at me to reach for my daggers. No man overpowers me and lives to brag about it. But there’s something in his eyes—something raw, vulnerable—that makes me pause.

“Gypsy,” he breathes, his face close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin. The moonlight dances in his eyes, softening the hard lines of his face. “Answer me.” His arm presses against my chest as he lowers himself, biting down on my neck. I gasp, reaching for my clit, but he’s quicker. His thumb circles it, and his finger slips inside me, curling just right.

My back arches. I wrap my arms around his neck, the fight in me crumbling. Maybe this time I’ll let him have me.

“If you think I like possessiveness, you’re dead wrong,” I growl, trying to keep my voice steady even as the pleasure builds.

“I need to know, Gypsy. Tell me.”

I snarl, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his face close to mine. “No.”

His fingers curl deeper, and his thumb presses harder, the threat hanging in the air.

“Tell me,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine, “or I’ll stop.”

Fuck. That familiar evil stirs deep inside me, bending my will until I break beneath it. I don’t want him to stop—I don’t want him to ever stop.

“No one else,” I grit out, half in disbelief I’m saying it. The other part of me doesn’t care—just wants the friction to keep going. “But you’d better fuck me now, or there might be.”

He smirks, that infuriatingly cocky grin spreading across his face. “My fingers not enough for you?”

I could tell him they’re more than enough—could admit he’s got me unraveling under his touch—but why inflate his already massive ego? Still, the way his fingers work me over, like I’m an instrument he’s mastered, makes my eyes roll back in pure bliss. I could stay like this forever, pinned beneath him, toes curling in the sand.

But I won’t give him that satisfaction.

“No, they’re not,” I manage to say, shaking my head slightly, though he’s already smirking, not buying a word of it. “That’s why I need more.”

His lips part, licking them slowly as he leans in. “Oh, do you now?” he purrs, voice dripping with arrogance.

My heart skips a beat. He looks at me like I’m his prize—like the whole world could fall apart, and as long as he has me beneath him, nothing else matters. And just as I think about wiping that smug look off his face, he’s already there, lining himself up between my folds.

His mouth crashes into mine again, fierce and desperate, and the next second, he’s thrusting inside me with one deep stroke. It’s as if my body was waiting for this, for him. I take him in effortlessly, my slick heat pulling him in like he belongs there.

He nestles into the crook of my neck, pressing soft kisses along my jaw as he starts to move—deep, intense, driving me insane. “So tight,” he murmurs, his voice rough as his tongue traces my skin. “And so damn sweet.” I moan, the words lingering in my mind. I know exactly what I taste like—salt and rum, the sea itself. Maybe that’s why he’s drawn to me, why he can’t get enough.

“I could devour you whole, Gypsy Flint,” he growls, making me shudder.

But I don’t want to shudder. I don’t want tenderness. I don’t need him to tease me or kiss me or nuzzle in my neck. I want him to fuck me like he hates me—like every thrust is a battle between us. I don’t want that war to stop.

So, I match his rhythm, pushing him harder, faster. My hips have a mind of their own, every nerve in my body lit up, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

He’s not giving me what I want, though. He’s still teasing, still holding back. So I take matters into my own hands.

“My turn,” I gasp, shoving against his chest and flipping him over in one swift move.

Zayan Cagney could crush a man’s throat with nothing but his bare hands. He’s a legend—fought sharks in open water and came out the victor. I know he wouldn’t let me flip him unless he wanted to.

He wants to.

“Fine, Gypsy,” he grunts, voice rough. “You devour me, too. Since you seem to like it so much.”

I waste no time. Lifting myself up, I slam back down onto him, taking him in fully, over and over again.

I can feel the raw strength in him, the power barely contained beneath the surface. His muscles flex with every thrust, and the sounds coming from his throat—deep, guttural groans—are enough to drive me wild.

I bring my hands to my breasts, pinching my nipples, making sure he’s watching as I lose myself to the rhythm.

How’s that, Cagney? Will you remember this?

His eyes, dark and hungry, tell me yes. He’ll remember. Every second.

That’s when his control snaps. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me down harder, helping me ride him with an urgency that matches my own. I let him, watching the tension in his muscles, listening to the animalistic groans that tear from his throat.

Time means nothing now. It’s just him, me, the night, and the waves crashing against the shore. Nothing else exists.

We keep at it until my legs tremble, until his gaze is so dark with lust it makes my heart race. It’s fast, but it lasts. Long enough to make us both forget who we are, what we are to each other.

Finally, when I feel him twitch inside me, his mouth falls open, and I can’t hold back any longer. The sight of him, so lost in me, makes me explode.

“Yes, just like that,” he growls, voice tight with need. “Come on me, Gypsy.”

His fingers find my clit, and the pleasure hits me like a wave, crashing over me until I’m crying out, completely undone. But Zayan isn’t done with me yet.

Seeing me completely lost, he flips us over again. This time, I don’t even try to protest. Sand up my ass be damned. Time be damned. Everything be damned. I need this to continue.

He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me in tight and he locks my trembles with his body weight, pinning me to the sand and forcing me to take it.

“Oh god…” I moan, turning into a white hot mess.

He pumps into me again and again. No fucking mercy.

Fuck .

I claw at the sand, my nails breaking the surface, desperate for something to hold onto as my body surrenders completely to the sensation. Tears run up to my eyes and trail down my temples. I’m livid.

His breathing grows more erratic, his groans vibrating through me as his body tenses.

“Gypsy,” he growls, his voice rough, a warning and a plea all at once. His hands slide up my body, gripping my shoulders and putting my arms above my head. “You’re driving me fucking crazy…”

I can’t reply. I just can’t. The words are trapped in my throat.

Another moment passes, where I feel like alcohol-glazed, blazing fire, and then his body goes rigid. He buries himself deep inside me one last time, moans the most guttural moan I’ve ever heard, and pulls out.

Warm liquid lands on my chest and belly.

Zayan collapses beside me, his chest heaving, the aftershocks of it all still coursing through his body.

I can still feel the weight of him, too—the lingering pressure where his hands gripped me, the raw burn where our bodies met in a clash, the pain left from his fingers digging into my flesh. My mind is a fog, barely able to process anything other than that.

On the outside, though, we both breathe heavily, sweat tickling our skin.

“See what you’ve done?” I pant out, the first one to break the silence. “Thanks to you, we both have sand up our asses.”

“Fucking worth it.”

I push myself up, throwing him a sarcastic glare, though I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips.

He chuckles, low and hearty, sitting up with one knee bent and the other stretched out, his chest rising and falling as he watches me with that lazy grin. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“What? You gonna disagree?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Ugh, it’ll take forever to get rid of it, so...”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. “Oh, I’m sure I can help with that,” he says.

“Doubt it,” I quip.

“Really?” His grin widens, wicked and knowing. “The sea’s right here, Gypsy. I could help you wash it off… maybe go for round two while we’re at it.”

I whip my head around, narrowing my eyes as I sit up, still brushing the sand off my legs. “Hell, no.”

He laughs, that rich, deep laugh that grates at my nerves. “Come on, Gypsy. It’s not like we’re gonna see each other anytime soon.”

“I told you, I don’t have much time,” I say, standing up, brushing off more sand from my chest, watching it trickle down in a trail. I do need to wash up, but there’s no way he’s helping me with anything. “Not now.”

“You didn’t seem to mind time when I was buried deep inside you,” he teases. He jumps to his feet in one fluid motion and extends his arm toward me. “At least let me give you a hand.”

I ignore him.

Sex is one thing. It’s wild, free—something you dive into without hesitation, like the sea itself. But this? This thing he’s offering now—this aftercare —it’s different. I got what I wanted. I’m satisfied. There’s no need to keep this going.

“Save your affection for someone who needs it, Zayan,” I say, standing taller, chin tipping upward. “I can handle cleaning myself up.”

Without waiting for his response, I turn on my heel and head toward the waves. Each step sinks into the sand until the water laps at my ankles, cool and steady, as it always is. I let it wash over me, rinsing away the touch of his hands, the heat of our earlier entanglement, and the foolishness of letting him too close.

But of course, Zayan isn’t one to let things go. He’s trailing behind me, quiet but persistent, like a damn seagull eyeing a catch. Hovering. Watching.

I dunk myself under the water, scrubbing away the sweat and sand, wishing it could rid me of the tension still coiled in my muscles. But when I emerge, he’s still there, standing in the shallows with that infuriating smirk plastered across his face.

“So,” he says, once I’ve waded back to shore, water dripping off both our bodies, “when can I see you again?”

I take my time brushing the water off, waiting for my skin to dry enough to pull my shirt back on. He’s still naked, standing there like some sea god risen from the depths, moonlight catching on the droplets of water clinging to his skin like jewels. I lick the salt from my lips, savoring the taste.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully, pulling my shirt over my head. “Between raids and this new compass I’ve got, who knows when we’ll dock on the same shore again?”

A Serpent and a Marauder meeting by chance on the same island? It’s a rare stroke of luck, not something we can plan. Both of our crews stay at sea for months at a time, and it’s been a damn miracle that we’ve managed to dock in the same place three times in the last few months.

He ought to understand that.

But Zayan doesn’t seem to. He stands next to me, frowning, arms crossed over his chest, muscles taut beneath his skin as if he’s trying to work something out.

“Wait... a compass?” His voice sharpens, curiosity laced with something more. “You bought Old Betty’s compass?”

I nod, watching as realization dawns on his face. He knows the stories as well as I do. Old Betty’s compass is infamous. It doesn’t take him long to connect the dots.

“You’re telling me you bought it?” His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “You bought that thing?”

“Yeah,” I say, more confidently this time. “And it wasn’t cheap. But it’s worth every coin and then some.” For a moment, I wonder why I’m even telling him this. It’s not like Zayan Cagney and I share secrets. But there’s something about tonight—the moon, the sea, the heat still lingering between us—that makes it easy to let my guard down.

Still, who is he going to tell? My father? Pfft. Sooner he’ll get a bullet right between his eyes than he manages to get an audience.

“Are you insane?” Zayan’s voice cuts through the night, disbelief lacing every word. His question stings, not because I didn’t expect it, but because of how it makes my skin prickle. The sea god I was just looking at, bathed in moonlight, fades away, leaving only the man standing before me—tense, vulnerable, and far too close for comfort.

Everything about me changes, too. The playful heat from before is gone, replaced by something far darker.

“Careful,” I mutter, meeting his gaze head-on, my voice low, a warning. “Choose your next words wisely, Red One.”

He freezes, his lips parting as if he’s on the verge of saying something else, but the flicker of light in his eyes dims as he hears the Marauders’ nickname. His hands lift in a gesture of peace, but we both know the tension between us is still there, thick like the humid night air, swirling with the danger we’ve created.

“All I’m saying is...” His voice softens, but there’s no missing the edge beneath it. “Everyone knows that thing’s cursed.”

I narrow my eyes, refusing to give ground. “And?”

“And… Gypsy.” There’s a hesitation in his voice, something almost pleading. “Why would you do it?”

“Why would I do what?” I ask, stepping closer, my fingers itching to wrap around the hilt of my daggers.

His gaze flicks toward the daggers lying near my clothes, and for a moment, I see the concern in his eyes. He doesn’t move, doesn’t back away, even though he’s standing there—naked, exposed, and far too concerned for my liking.

“That thing is doom in your pocket,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “The last person who touched it vanished without a trace.”

I let out a harsh laugh. “The last person who touched it was Old Betty, and she’s still sitting at her stall, puffing away like nothing ever happened.”

“You know what I mean,” he snaps, his frustration finally bubbling to the surface. “That thing brings death, Gypsy. You can’t seriously believe it’s just a coincidence.”

My jaw clenches as I turn away, my back to the sea. “People say a lot of things,” I mutter, yanking my shirt off the ground and buckling my daggers back into place. “And I don’t care about any of them.”

“You should care!” His voice rises, sharp and cutting. “There’s a reason no one’s touched that thing in years. Gold like that? It shouldn’t have been left lying around.”

I pull my shirt over my head, tugging it into place with more force than necessary. “Fear does that. And fear is how legends are born.”

He scoffs, stepping closer again, his body a looming presence behind me. “So what do you plan on doing? Just sail with it, like you’re invincible?”

“Yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

“Fuck,” he curses. “And what ship do you plan on using? Your father’s?” His voice is hard now, colder, more dangerous. “You think Silverbeard’s going to let that cursed thing anywhere near his crew? Near you?”

“Isn’t it treason to defend Silverbeard’s opinions? You’re really walking a fine line, Cagney. Roche wouldn’t like that.”

“I’m not defending him,” he snarls. “I’m just—“

He hesitates, and something flickers between us, something fragile. For a brief moment, I think he’s about to say something that could shift everything, but when he speaks again, it’s worse than anything I could’ve anticipated.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Gypsy.”

The warmth in his voice catches me off guard, and I hate it. I hate the way my chest tightens, how his words seem to pierce through the walls I’ve built around myself. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I force myself to breathe, to push down the sudden flood of emotions I don’t want to deal with.

“No, you don’t,” I say, my voice colder than I feel inside.

He moves even closer, his breath brushing against my skin, and when he speaks, his voice is low, almost tender. “But I do.”

I take a step back, needing the distance, needing air, needing space. Panic claws at my chest, and I don’t even know why. This was never supposed to be anything more than a distraction. I didn’t sign up for this, for feelings, for him .

“Then you need to stop,” I whisper, my voice trembling, betraying me. My heart races in my chest, panic blooming like wildfire. “Because if you don’t, Zayan, we’re done. We part ways here.” For a moment, the world stands still. The night air presses in, thick with everything we’re not saying. I don’t dare move, don’t dare breathe, afraid that if I let him speak, if I let him get one more word in, I’ll crumble.

Finally, his voice breaks through the silence, barely more than a whisper. “What if I don’t know how?”

I meet his gaze, eyes locking with his, and for the briefest moment, I see something there—something raw, something real. I hate it. I really fucking hate it. Without another word, I turn on my heel, pulling my daggers tighter around my waist, the compass in my pocket burning like a brand against my leg. I leave him standing there, alone in the moonlight, with nothing but the crashing waves.

I simply… run away.