The straw-stuffed mattress groans beneath us, each thrust shaking the frame like it's trying to escape the scandal. I'm already on him—hips rolling slow, deliberate, just enough to drive him mad but not enough to give him what he wants.
His hands clutch my thighs like lifelines. My cloak's half off, pooling around my shoulders, but I keep the sandals on. For effect. For power. For me.
Ogden's gasping beneath me, flushed and arrogant. Just the way I like him.
Then—right when I can feel his pulse hammering through his grip—he has the audacity.
"I want a cut," he grunts, looking up at me through half-lidded eyes. "Of the scam. The gold. You and your little band ride out at dawn, right? I want in."
I slow down. Not stop—just slow.
"Oh?" I murmur. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"
He smirks. Bastard. "Don't play innocent. You want to keep me quiet? Pay me."
I clench around him—watch him twitch, groan.
"Fine," I whisper. "But only if you let me make it memorable."
That gets his attention.
I lean down, lips brushing his ear. "You curious, Ogden?"
He exhales. "Always."
"Let me show you what a girl picks up in the whorehouses you couldn't afford."
I kiss down his jaw, his neck, grinding against him until he's practically whimpering. Then I slide his hands above his head.
Just for a moment.
"Do you trust me?" I whisper, voice soft as silk and just as binding.
He grins, even as I slip a rope from beneath the cloak. "Never."
"Good," I whisper. "Trust is boring."
A loop. A pull. A knot. One wrist, then the other. Not tight. Not painful. But secure enough that he can't stop me.
He laughs, drunk on the moment. "Gods, you're wicked."
I grind down harder, ride him like a secret, all sighs and whispered filth. I tell him he's the best I've had in weeks, maybe ever. He believes every word.
"Say you'll cut me in," he pants, hips desperate, wrists straining.
"Oh Ogden," I whisper sweetly, kissing his lips, his chin, his throat.
Then I climax—loud, theatrical, maybe even real. Who knows anymore.
And as I come down, breath hot against his cheek, I murmur—
"No."
He blinks.
"What—?"
But I'm already pulling away, cloak back on, rope ends double-knotted, and Ogden left bare, breathless, and very much still hard.
I kiss his forehead, soft and mocking. "You should've asked for payment up front."
And then I'm gone.
Down the trapdoor, into the night, out the door with my coin and his dignity both in my pouch.
Tomorrow at dawn, I ride.
He?
He gets to practice patience.