Burn
Burn.
She watched the flames consume the wooden barrels and the rum they contained. Damned, vile drink. It made one do things, think things, feel things that one would not normally do, think or feel. It made one burn.
The flame crept ever higher, attacking the palm trees surrounding the pile of crates and barrels. She turned her back to it, watching Jack, still lying in a drunken stupor in the sand. She remembered last night: the burn of the rum down her throat, in her belly, the heat of the signal fire as they danced and sang. There was another burn, another heat. When Jack looked at her, when his eyes ravaged her perfect body, when his tongue darted out to lick the last drop from his lips, she felt it. It was near where the rum burned, but lower still. The feeling had only intensified throughout the night, as they drank and talked. When they lay next to each other, it was so hot she could hardly bear it.
She blamed the rum. It had to be that awful pirates' drink.
But, if it was, why was she still burning for Jack?