Imagine Davy Jones getting exasperated you don’t want to join his crew.
A woman on board was considered unlucky, although the ship was clearly already wretched. And you told the captain so.
“I offer you a choice,” he offered yet again, before you interrupted.
“Won’t I be a distraction? Or is that why you want me?”
You quirked an eyebrow. Jones stared. His pupils reminded you of the dark abyss he promised to save you from.
“You ever have two men at once, lass?”
“What?”
His pulsating tentacles slowly gravitated toward your face. “Oh,” you murmured. But you were trying to figure out the extent of his proposal. The Flying Dutchman’s crew were practically salivating. A tentacle brushed the side of your mouth.
“Mind sucker marks on your thighs?”