Bollo.
Gods.
That man.
Ok, Taurean.
In case you were wondering what makes this girl so giddy.
My regular down in Toemacha. Big fella. Shoulders like ox yokes. Chest like a beer barrel. Voice like gravel being poured over silk. Dumb as a cartwheel, but stars above—he knew exactly what to do with all that meat.
We had fun. Real fun. The kind that makes your toes curl and your liver ache. I'm not even exaggerating. I'd limp for days after a visit. Madam used to tease me, said I looked like I got hit by a blessed cart. I said, "No, just Bollo."
Brute, in the best possible way. No finesse, no nonsense. Just raw, honest-to-gods usage. Picked me up like a rag doll, pinned me to the wall, plowed me through a feather mattress once. Still miss that mattress. It never recovered.
Met him again, years later. Wasn't expecting it. I was passing through this sleepy hill town, pine trees everywhere, and there he was—hauling timber, shirtless, sweating like sin. My knees just about gave out.
We didn't talk much. We both knew why I followed him behind that grove.
Quickie. Pine needles on my back. That same old growl in his throat.
But it wasn't the same.
Afterward, he smiled all crooked, pulled his breeches back up, and said he had to get home. Turns out he's got a wife now. And a son.
Heh.
I don't blame him. Life moves on. Some people grow roots. Some of us just keep flying from fire to fire.
Still.
Every now and then, when the campfire's low and the dragon's snoring like a thunderstorm, I think about Bollo. About the way he used to slam into me like a man trying to knock sense into the gods.
And yeah. I smile.
And walk a little funny, just from the memory.