The port was called Khoraz. Cracked terracotta roofs, salt-streaked docks, and a whore tax you had to prepay if you looked like me. I didn't mind. Khoraz had two things I liked: old money and older men.
We were upstairs in the tavern. The kind with splintery balconies and swaying paper walls, where you could hear someone fart in the next room and still pretend it was romantic. The bed was soft enough, though. And Captain Menos? Gods. He had silver at the temples, scars on the back, and this quiet way of looking at me like I was the last storm he'd ever sail into willingly.
I was nude. Obviously. Draped in linen sheets like a sulky goddess after ritual sacrifice. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up a sandal, chest still damp from round one. His back was glorious. Sailor's back. Tight ropes of muscle like he'd wrestled the sea and half-won.
"So, captain," I purred, rolling onto my stomach, chin on my arms, breasts squished just enough for symmetry, "are you always this gallant, or is it just when you accidentally dock in ports full of wet temptations?"
He chuckled, deep and slow. Didn't look back. Just said, "Depends on the temptation."
I kicked my feet in the air behind me, brat-mode fully activated. "I bet you've got a wife somewhere. Kids. A stern lady waiting with a rolling pin and a prayer for your safe return."
He finally looked back. "I've got a ship."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
Mmm. Delicious ambiguity. The kind that made you want to pull a man back into bed just to make him forget how to lie properly. I twisted a sheet around my finger and gave him the wide-eyed dock-girl innocence I'd perfected in Seebulba.
"Y'know, Menos… I've always had a thing for sea wolves. Especially when they smell like sweat and storms and poor decisions."
That earned me a full turn. He leaned over, one hand braced on the bed, the other trailing lazy circles on my thigh. "Poor decisions, hm?"
"Oh, the worst." I bit my lip. "Like renting a room with a stranger who claims he used to smuggle moon pearls through the Thalveth blockade. But can't remember what port he buried them in."
He grinned. It was crooked. Real. Probably hadn't smiled like that in years.
I yanked the sheet down just enough to flash a nipple. "Round two?"
"Give me a moment," he said, sliding the sandal off again.
"Better hurry. I get bored fast. Might run off with your coin purse and your secrets."
He didn't flinch. "You're welcome to both."
Gods, I wanted to eat him alive.
Not because he was beautiful. He wasn't. Not really. He was creased and scarred and smelled like salt and leather. But that voice. That patience. That feeling of being studied by someone who'd buried things and didn't care if I was one of them.
There's nothing better than a young harlot and an old sea wolf. We don't try to fix each other. We just burn bright while the tide's in, and let the wreckage float.
He came back to bed without another word.
I let the sheet fall.
I straddled him slow. Let him feel it. My palms on his chest, hips hovering just out of reach. The kind of tease that makes old men ache in all the places that remind them they're still alive. His hands went to my thighs—big, rough hands, callused from rope and salt and every terrible thing a man does to keep a ship afloat.
I rolled my hips forward once. Just once. Deep and slow. Felt him slide in and watched his mouth open like he wanted to say something holy and forgot all the words.
My rhythm? It's mine. Learned in temple, perfected in backrooms, alleyways, auction cages. It starts with circles. Wide. Lazy. The kind that makes men beg and women jealous. Then it tightens. Quickens. Turns sharp. Pelvis to pelvis. Clit to bone. Every grind just enough to say: I'm not done with you yet.
He groaned through his teeth. Not loud. Not theatrical. The sound a real man makes when something good is happening and he's trying not to finish too soon. Gods, I loved that.
I bit my lip and started moving faster. My hair stuck to my neck, my thighs burned. Every time I dropped, I swore I could feel the years peel off him like bark. He wasn't just holding me anymore. He was holding on.
"Been a while, captain?" I whispered, breath ragged. "Forgot how it feels to fuck a storm?"
He bucked up under me, a hand at my ass, anchoring. Hungry. So hungry. That kind of hunger only men who've spent half a lifetime with nothing but the sea and their regrets ever really learn. I met it with all of me.
The bed creaked. The shutters rattled. Someone cursed in the room next door.
I didn't care.
Because this was my pace. My ride. My rules. And the good captain?
He knew the course.
He just let me sail it.
I collapsed onto his chest, breath hot against his skin, my hair sticking to the sweat between us. He didn't say anything. Just wrapped an arm around me like he'd done this a hundred times, like I was just one more storm that rolled in off the sea and left salt in the sheets. Fine by me. I like it better when they don't talk.
The bed creaked under us. It was soft. Stupidly soft. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to not have a spring stabbing your tailbone or straw poking your cunt. I stretched like a cat and nuzzled in under his jaw. "You paid for this whole room, captain," I murmured, voice syrup-thick and half-lazy. "Be a shame if we only used it for two rounds."
He chuckled low in his throat. That sound again. Storm in the distance. "Then pace yourself, little fire."
"Pacing's for people who don't know how to finish strong."
I could feel him half-hard again. Good. He'd need that.
I draped myself across him, tracing lazy little shapes on his ribs with my fingertip. "So tell me, sailor. You got girls like me lined up from Seebulba to the spice isles? Dockside lovers in every piss-smelling port? Harlots waiting with bells on?"
He gave me a look. Wry. Knowing. "Some ports ring louder than others."
"Bet they do." I nipped his collarbone just to hear him suck in breath. Then I went still. "You ever come across a girl named Loma?"
That made him pause.
"Blonde," I added. "Tiny thing. Looks like a doll. Talks like a noble. Fucks like a fire." I propped my chin on his chest. "Says she's a princess. Might be. Or just very, very stupid."
The captain's brows drew in faintly. "Friend of yours?"
"More of a burden." I shrugged. "Ran into her a while back. Sold herself—stupid girl didn't even know how to haggle. Got a stamp and everything. Emblem of Tanagra. I heard she was shipped down the coast with a batch of new girls. One of Zoobaya's lots maybe."
"Mm."
"Hope they stuck her in a decent tavern at least. Or one of those perfumed joints with velvet benches and wine warmers under the table. Anything but the streets." I glanced toward the shuttered window. "Some girls don't last on the streets."
He didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Men like him know what happens when girls don't last.
I stretched again, let my leg drape across his hips. "Anyway. She's probably somewhere close. You'd know if you'd met her. She's the kind of girl who leaves claw marks. Or bruises. Or a trail of crying boys and broken porcelain."
A pause.
Then: "You looking for her?"
"No," I said, and kissed the side of his throat. "Just wanted to know if I should warn her next time I see her. That some sea wolf's been sailing around saying poetic things and fucking like he's got something to prove."
His hand slid down my back. "Consider me warned too."
"Good," I whispered. "Because the night's not over. And neither are you."
"Emblem of Tanagra?" he asked, voice low, like maybe the words tasted strange in his mouth.
I froze for half a breath, then gave a slow, languid nod against his chest. "Mhm. Little subburt needlework on the small of her back. Hard to fake. Trust me—I've tried." I yawned theatrically, fingers drumming on his stomach. "So if you paid for her, congrats, captain. You stuck it in real royalty."
His breath caught. Just for a second. Then he muttered something—low, gruff, not meant for me.
"What was that?" I tilted my head up. "Something about divine right?"
He didn't repeat it. Just stared past me, eyes somewhere in the rafters, thoughts probably tangled in ten gold coins and the feel of silk skin and what it means to fuck a girl who might've once had a crown dangled over her cradle.
"Don't worry," I added, smirking, "I won't tell your crew you banged a princess. Wouldn't want the boys to start kneeling next time she moans."
He didn't laugh.
Didn't have to.
Men like him don't need punchlines.
They just live with the ghosts.
Truth is, I lost track of Loma moons ago.
I said it like I didn't care. Like it was just gossip—tavern chatter, pillow talk, something to fill the quiet between the sweat and the next climb. But it wasn't. Not really.
Last time I saw her, she was in chains. Again. Sold off in some backwater pit of a market. Screaming at the guards like they'd made a mistake, like royalty mattered when you're naked and shackled and your name's just ink on a ledger next to a price. That girl. Gods.
Always stepping into holes I just climbed out of. Always trailing lace and bad decisions. I told her not to trust that merchant. Told her the coin wasn't worth it. Told her to shut up, keep her head down, let me talk. But no—she had to lecture them. Had to act like papers and stamps would save her.
She thought they wouldn't dare.
They dared.
I paid a cutthroat to follow the caravan. He came back with her comb and a story about a port further south. Could be true. Could be shit. I never checked.
Because I knew how it goes. Once they slap a collar on you, you're cargo. They'll dress you in pearls or piss, depending on the buyer. Maybe she ended up in a perfumed brothel, soft beds and better rations. Maybe she's crawling in alley muck with bruises and broken teeth.
Either way, she's someone else's problem now.
I told myself that. Over and over.
But some nights… gods. I swear I still hear her voice. All haughty and breathless, asking if the bed's safe, if the food's poisoned, if I think this new lipstick makes her look cheap or just adventurous.
And I just roll over, press my cheek to the mattress, and pretend I never cared.