His shoulder shifts , loosening just enough to let a gasp escape me, a sound I can’t stifle. He must hear it too, because he lets out a low, guttural growl.
“Gypsy, love,” he murmurs, voice rough and breaking. “I’m going to fill you up like this, make you feel my cum dripping out of you… all damn day.”
At his words, I come undone, my body splintering under the force of the orgasm. My head falls back, hitting the wall as my eyes flutter shut, and I’m lost in it.
He reaches up, tugging my hood down just enough to bare my neck completely. He nuzzles his nose in it, inhaling deeply as he keeps on fucking me.
I’m shaking, eyes rolling back, and I want to cry out—think Iamcrying out. But his hand clamps over my mouth, muting the sound. Everything goes white.
He doesn’t let me go for a long time afterward. He keeps thrusting into me, stretching out my bliss, making me dance on that thin line between sanity and oblivion until it all ends.
Then, he follows me over the edge, his body tensing as he thrusts into me one final time, groaning my name into my ear. I can feel the heat of him spilling inside me, his thick cum filling me full.
His body shudders against mine as he collapses, his weight pinning me to the wall. The world around us starts to come back into focus, the market sounds filtering in through the haze. I’m breathing hard, heart still pounding.
I’m catching my breath, heartbeat drumming in my ears, when Zayan’s hand slips from my mouth to my shoulder.
“Is your back okay?” he mutters, voice rough.
I smirk, feeling the sting along my spine. “Scratched to hell, I’m sure.”
“You could’ve told me to stop,” he says, sounding almost...concerned.
“Maybe,” I shrug. “But I didn’t want to.”
The lingering ache, the bruises—I savor it all, twisted as it is. The soreness only makes it feel dirtier, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I don’t tell him that, of course. Instead, I arch a brow at him, feeling the heat of his cum sliding down my thighs.
“I reallyamdripping,“ I say, meeting his eyes.
A flicker of pride flashes across his face, and he reaches down, tracing a finger along the line of my thigh where his cum is slipping. He brings it to his lips, locking eyes with me as he tastes himself there, a devilish glint lighting his gaze.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “That’s how it should be.”
I feel a shiver course through me, even as my breathing finally steadies.
He steps back, adjusting his cloak and turns around to check whether we were seen. I tuck myself back together, putting my pants back in place, even though my thighs are wet, and join him. Luckily, there are no rogue bastards standing anywhere near us. If we were seen or heard, people must have ignored us.
“Guess I’ll just have to deal with it,” I mutter, catching his eyes. He smirks.
“Consider it a reminder,” he says. “Of all the things I have to offer you.”
I snort, rolling my eyes, but can’t quite hide the smirk tugging at my lips. A reminder, he says. As if I need any more of those where he’s concerned.
I drop down onto a rock, clutching a bottle in one hand and a scrap of parchment in the other, charcoal already smudging my fingers. The words refuse to come; my head’s a mess, tangled up from even attempting to figure out what in hell I’d say in a letter to my father.
“Why not just say you’re alive?” Zayan quips, his brow arched like he’s amused. “Keep it simple.”
I glance over at him, his gaze steady on the waves, and there’s a flicker of envy in me. He doesn’t seem to have this kind of problems. He always seems to know what to say, even in the worst kind of moments.
“I don’t know if ‘alive’ covers it,” I mutter, turning the bottle over in my hand. The glass is smooth and cold, and it still stinks a bit of rum. “And I doubt that’s what he wants to hear from his runaway daughter.”
“He’ll be happy enough just knowing you’re breathing,” Zayan replies, turning to me. “For all he knows, you’re lying at the bottom of the sea—just another name cursed by that compass.”
He’s probably right. By now, my father likely thinks I’m nothing but a memory—maybe a regret he’s buried with the rest of his mistakes. The bastard is ruthless, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting when he threw me off the crew. But it’s his job to put them first, isn’t it? Most of them, anyway.
“Not like that’s far from the truth,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Emotions churn inside me, all tangled up, each one trying to claim a piece of me. But only a few make the cut: courage, drive, a taste for the thrill. The rest? I shove them down. Fear, doubt, guilt—they’re like leeches clinging to flesh, sapping my strength, dragging me toward shadows I’d rather not face.
