Fist of the Pirate

Edward was innocent of wrongdoing and that was the God’s honest truth—the entire mess was Sinbad’s fault. He’d been innocently drinking rum a short step above swill when Sinbad had sat down across from him, sliding into the seat without bothering to wait for an invitation.

“You,” Edward greeted him, raising his glass to his personal albatross. His shoulder still ached from the clash with the British navy, and Sinbad was trouble enough without fighting him, so Edward let the other man stay. His dick twitching attentively in his breeches had nothing to do with the matter, because Edward sure as hell wasn't controlled by his cock.

“Me,” Sinbad replied, stealing Edward’s glass and guzzling it before Edward could steal it back. “You have terrible taste in rum, Thatch.” He slid the glass back toward Edward, a frown that was nearly a grimace twisting his handsome face. “Will you fuck me tonight?”

Edward’s eyebrows rose nearly to the brim of his hat. “With an invitation like that, how can I do anything but refuse?”

“That wasn’t, in and of itself, a refusal,” Sinbad pointed out and grinning at Edward like he'd agreed instead of shooting him down. The bastard probably thought he was being seductive, but Edward was strong—he would not give in. This time. He had self-respect.

“Then let this be one. No. Last time I fucked you, three warships from the colonies tried to sink my ship.”

“It’s not like they succeeded. Given that we’re in New Providence, the chances of it happening again are significantly lower than the chances of you giving in.”

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