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Water sloughed off of Morgan’s breasts as she climbed back onto the beach. She was vaguely aware of William’s laughter as he handed her a sackcloth rag – she rubbed her hair dry and drew a blanket about her shoulders.
“It’s berrypicking season.” She drawled, surveying the patch of land they’d washed up on. “The crew would appreciate a fresh tart for dinner, Mister Shaw – maybe we should explore the western slope?”
William would say it was the duty of cook, but he understood her wish for privacy instantly. They spent the morning lounging in bright sunshine, fingers exploring lazily what would have once been ruthlessly plundered. She was sleek, and brown and bright-eyed, her entire form radiating health as she stroked him hard and mounted him, greedy in her lust.
His thoughts went wild as she rode him with the focused command of a woman fully in control of her own power. Let the others have that sort of women who frittered and clucked their tongues in drawing rooms, wearing their masks of innocence in falsehood - Morgan was a prize beyond measure, and William would follow her into the depths of Davy Jones’ locker again and again.
The sky burned behind them and everything went molten in William as Morgan laughed, the victor of the day, with her hair streaming like a red banner in the breeze behind her.