Anchored in my Heart: A Lesbian Pirate Story

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓔𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽: 𝓢𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓢𝓪𝓲𝓵 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓖𝓸𝓵𝓭𝓮𝓷 𝓘𝓼𝓵𝓮

The Cursed Corsair sliced through the frothy blue-green waves, salt spray misting the air. On the quarterdeck, Hazel Cabot stood with her booted feet braced apart, one hand resting on the hilt of her scimitar sword. Her white blouse strained against her curvy figure as the ocean breeze whipped it against her skin.

Hazel's green, kohl-rimmed eyes scanned the horizon with ruthless focus. She could taste the promise of treasure and adventure on the salt-tinged air. Her lips quirked up in a predatory smirk as she addressed her crew.

"Listen up, you mangey curs!" she shouted, her husky voice carrying easily across the deck. "We've got a long voyage ahead to Golden Isle. And I'll not suffer any sniveling cowards on my ship!"

The crew instantly straightened, their weathered faces turning towards their bold captain with a mix of respect and trepidation. Rowan Brigham sauntered up next to Hazel, the muscles in her arms and shoulders rippling beneath her tight white tank top. Her stormy grey eyes missed nothing as they roved over the crew.

"You scurvy bilge rats heard the lady," Rowan rumbled, a faint smirk playing across her full lips. "The Navy's bought watchdogs are on our trail, and that mangy git Blackwood's about too."

She slowly dragged her gaze along Hazel's body, seeming to drink in every curve before meeting her eyes with a blazing look. "But we'll show those skive-rotten curs what it means to cross the fiercest pirates in the West Indies."

A roar went up from the crew, fueled by Rowan's searing words. Hazel felt a shiver of heated awareness trickle down her spine at the molten promise in Rowan's stare. Clearing her throat, she wrenched her gaze away.

"Secure the cannons and run out the swivel guns," she barked. "I want this ship stocked and ready to send those scoundrels to Davy Jones' locker!"

As the crew leapt into action, Rowan closed the gap between them until Hazel could feel the warmth of her body. She smelled like salt, gunpowder and some musky undertone that was uniquely Rowan.

"Just you, me and the high seas, eh Haze?" Rowan murmured, her voice pitched low enough to send tingles down Hazel's neck.

Hazel fought to keep her expression impassive as she brazenly looked Rowan up and down. "Keep your wits about you this time, Rowe. I've no urge to be hauling you out of the brig if you get too...distracted."

Their gazes locked and the air seemed to stiffen with heated tension. Rowan's lips curved in a slow, syrupy smile.

"No promises, Captain," she purred.

Then, with a wink and a whisper of bedroom eyes, she turned on her heel and loped off to oversee the crew's preparations. Hazel watched her go, gaze lingering on the sway of Rowan's hips and the ripple of her back muscles until she could breathe again.

Giving herself a shake, she straightened her tri-cornered hat and turned her focus outward once more, her jaw setting in determination.

"To Golden Isle," she muttered, "and whatever fortunes await..."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​