It was only the second time the Angels had had a mission on board an active 19th century tall ship, but the first time around Dylan and Alex hadn’t started sleeping together yet. “Dare you,” Alex said, her eyes glittering.
She really didn’t have to say anything else. A slow grin broke on Dylan’s face. Dating Alex was amazing.
“Double dare you.”
“Do you hear any objections?”
Alex leaned over and slightly up to press the lightest of kisses on Dylan’s lips. It was a promise, a taste, a tease, and then they broke apart to go back to their hauling and rope-cleaning duties. The work never ended on the Mary Queen of Scots.
But the final bell of their shift did come, and soon after, around midnight, two figures could be seen climbing the netting, dark shadows against the night-sky. But Angels never get caught. The clouds covered the moon, the watch was playing poker in the poop, and the next shift wouldn't come in for another few minutes.
Dylan climbed through into the crow's nest and grabbed the railing, which she'd been told hadn't even been there in the earlier sloops, and extended a hand to help Alex up. The ship rocked and swung the nest from side to side and around again. The wind whipped up the sails, a moderate few that would keep them on the right heading across the channel. Dylan felt like laughing, so she did, and Alex wrapped her slight frame around her like a vine.
Alex hung on to Dylan, Dylan hung on to the railing, and they kissed like that, with Alex's sharp little fingers digging into Dylan's back. "Don't let go," Alex whispered, and hooked her legs around Dylan's hips.
Around and to the side the mast went. Dylan hung on as Alex undid the buttons of her semi-authentic waistcoat (only there for the tourists, really), her grip only tightening as Alex's mouth found her nipple and suckled, teased, pulled, nibbled.
"Fuck, fuck," Dylan cursed. Her head did not spin, but it adjusted to the motion of the crow's nest. She blinked her eyes open, and above was the sky, clouds breaking to show a smattering of stars. Again, and she could see the black foam-tipped waters below, the deck-lights slicing through them, humanity clinging on to the edge of death.
Alex was moving against her, her hips making motions and her throat small noises, her brow knitted in concentration. She got this way when she was getting worked up, focused, trying to be in the present and in control at the same time. Dylan always just came apart. She wanted to reach for Alex, but she couldn't let go or they might both tumble down.
All she could do was let Alex get her way. And Alex always did.
The wind whipped her hair back as she tilted her neck open for Alex's teeth, her knees weak as Alex's hand pressed up between them, against her mound, through the not-at-all authentic H&M tan naval breeches. "I am going to make you come," Alex promised in a hiss of a whisper. "Do not let go."
Dylan shook her head. Alex nodded, satisfied, and ripped open the flap of Dylan's breeches.
Her mouth tasted like sea-salt. Her fingers, of the waves.