Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [47]
From the center of the tavern came a chorus of cheers. Only the boy’s feet were visible, his toes spreading wide, ankles stiff, and legs jerking as he orgasmed. Yasmeen picked up her pint, raised it with the rest of the room. Her gaze met his.
“To young love,” she said.
Archimedes grinned. “May it always be so innocent.”
“And as lucrative for at least one partner.” She downed the pint in a few swallows. The table shivered as she slammed the glass back down. “What brings you to the Bull, Mr. Fox? Looking for sport on a table?”
“Looking for you.”
Her knuckles rapped the tabletop. “Then climb on up.”
Another invitation? And one that he could imagine, all too easily: wood at his back, and Yasmeen riding him. His hands filled with her soft breasts. Her claws digging into his shoulders. Wet heat surrounding his prick, taking him deep. Archimedes shifted in his seat, his body hardening. Not tonight. By God, he wanted to—but he’d wait until he needed to.
Yasmeen leaned forward, looking intently into his face. He could have distilled a potent liqueur from her breath. Too drunk for any sport, though he wouldn’t have known just watching her, listening to her. The woman could hold her drink.
He wasn’t a bit surprised by that fact.
“I believe I’ve done the impossible and rendered you speechless.” She sat back. “I don’t like it. I never thought to choose between your iron balls and your silver tongue.”
“They’re both at your disposal.”
“That’s much better. Ah, so is this.” She accepted a foaming pint from the barmaid. “Thank you, Mr. Fox. Now, then. What brings you here?”
“You brought me here. I remembered tales of Captain Corsair and tavern brawls.”
She laughed into her glass, lowered it. “You’ve heard those?”
“After you shot my father, I listened for any news of you.” He lifted his drink to her. “I ought to have bought you one thirteen years ago.”
In truth, he ought to have just killed the old man himself, but he’d still had some vision of proving him wrong. Now, he knew: If a job needed doing, then best just to get it done.
“I was glad to oblige. I’ve never had ambition of being roasted alive.”
“So you had ambition of being bloodied and drunk in tavern brawls. Such honorable pursuits, Captain.”
“Quite honorable.” As if to prove it, she took another drink. Her tongue swiped the foam from her upper lip, and she used the tip of her middle finger to catch the bit left at the corners of her mouth. “I’d made a name for myself in the New World, but I couldn’t get a job in Port Fallow. I offered to go into England—this was still when the Horde’s tower was up, controlling everyone infected by the right nanoagents, and no one else dared to fly in. I lowered my rates to a pittance. But the only offer I got was from a sailor, for that sort of work.”
With a lift of her chin, she indicated the woman who’d just climbed off the boy and was sidling up between twin brothers.
“The offer came with a grab to my tits, so I broke his arms. Then his mates decided to show me that I was nothing but a whore.” Brimming with amusement, her gaze met his again. “I was the only one left standing—and afterward, I picked up a job from someone who’d seen the fight. So I fought until I made a name for myself again. I suppose that was around the same time you were making a name for yourself, too.”
A new name. “Mine came later. About six months after you gutted Bloody Bartholomew.”
“Ah, Bart.” Eyes narrowing, she reached into her red sash and withdrew her cigarillo case. “You had a partner, too, didn’t you? Besson, Barson—”
“Bilson.”
“Yes. And he’s dead?”
“So the story goes.”
“I see—” She broke off, frowned. The expression disappeared in a blink. Without opening the silver case, she slipped it back into her sash. “In truth, he ran from Temür Agha.”
“Yes. He stayed for a while. After the first assassin came, though . . .” Archimedes