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The cards hit the felt one after another, and I watched Bartholomew's grin spread like a tide. He had the look of a man who was winning and knew it—the same look I'd seen on generals who thought they'd outflanked me, right before I burned their supply lines.

"Strip poker," he announced, slapping down another card. "House rules. Loser loses a garment. No exceptions, no complaints."

Isadora laughed, that warm throaty sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest. "Bartholomew, you cheater. You know I can't play cards worth a damn."

"All the better for me, love." He winked at her, then turned that crinkled blue gaze on me. "You play, boy?"

I examined my hand—a pair of sevens, nothing to write home about. "I've been known to hold my own."

That was the truth. I'd learned cards in the war tent, where the stakes were supply routes and the lives of men who trusted me with theirs. A king's ransom in grain and steel, wagered on the turn of a card. This game, with its silk and wine and candlelight, was child's play.

But I'd learned something else in that war tent: sometimes you let the enemy think they're winning.

Bartholomew dealt. I folded early, watching him and Isadora trade playful barbs across the table. She was magnificent in the firelight—that honey-blonde braid slipping over her shoulder, the low cut of her gown showing the heavy swell of her breasts. She caught me looking and didn't look away. Her brown eyes held mine with a warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.

"Your turn to deal, prince." Bartholomew slid the deck across the table. "Let's see if your luck holds."

I shuffled, letting my fingers remember the weight of the cards. The parlor was warm, close, the fire crackling in the hearth. Salt hung in the air from the harbor, mixed with the smell of Isadora's perfume—something floral, heavy, like night-blooming jasmine.

I dealt. Bartholomew won that hand, and I peeled off my doublet, letting it fall to the floor. His laugh boomed through the room.

"There's a lad! Down to the shirt now. You'll be freezing before the night's out."

Isadora's gaze traced down my chest, lingering where the linen clung to my shoulders. She didn't bother to hide it.

I let her look.

The next hand, I won—and Bartholomew's coat came off with a dramatic sigh. He was a barrel of a man, thick through the chest and gut, with a sailor's tan that stopped at his collar. His wife's eyes barely flicked toward him. They stayed on me.

"Your luck's turning," Isadora said. Her voice had dropped half an octave, gone rough at the edges.

"Luck's a fickle thing," I said. "You have to know when to press it."

I let him win the next two hands. My shirt came off, then my boots. I sat across from them in nothing but my breeches, the fire warming my skin, and watched Bartholomew's confidence swell like a sail catching wind.

He was a good man, Bartholomew Flint. A honest one. That was his weakness—he believed the game was what it appeared to be. He'd never learned that the real game happens in the spaces between cards, in the glances traded across the table, in the silence that stretches a moment too long.

Isadora lost her gown next. She made a show of it—slow, deliberate, letting the silk whisper down her body. She wore nothing beneath it. Her breasts were heavy, full, tipped with dusky nipples that hardened in the firelight. Her belly curved soft and warm, and the thatch of hair between her thighs was the same honey-blonde as her braid.

Bartholomew's laugh had gone a little strained. "Isadora, you shameless—"

"You're the one who suggested the game, love." She folded the gown and laid it across the back of her chair, then settled back into her seat as if she'd done nothing more than shed a cloak. Her nipples brushed the edge of the table as she leaned forward to take her cards.

I was hard. I didn't try to hide it—the tight wool of my breeches made hiding impossible. Isadora's gaze dropped to my lap and stayed there, her lips parting slightly.

Bartholomew cleared his throat. "Right. Well. My deal."

He dealt with shaking hands. I let him win that hand too, and my breeches joined the pile of discarded clothes. I was fully naked now, my cock standing proud against my belly, and Isadora's eyes had gone dark as the harbor at midnight.

"One more hand," I said. "Winner takes all. Loser... loses everything."

Bartholomew's grin had gone uncertain. "Now see here, boy—"

"I'll deal." I took the deck from him before he could protest. My fingers moved with practiced ease, and when I laid down the cards, I let him see the winning hand in my eyes a moment before I showed it.

Full house. Kings over eights.

Bartholomew stared at his own hand—a pair of twos—and let out a groan that was half laugh, half disbelief. "Well. I'll be damned."

Isadora stood up. The movement was slow, deliberate, a predator rising from cover. Her full hips swayed as she walked around the table toward me, and I saw Bartholomew's eyes go wide as he realized what she meant to do.

"Isadora—"

She didn't stop. She didn't even look at him. Her hands came up to cup my face, and then her mouth was on mine, hot and hungry, her tongue sliding against my lips like she'd been starving for it. She tasted of wine and something sweeter, and she moaned into my mouth, a low animal sound that went straight to my cock.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, her brown eyes half-lidded, her breath coming fast. "I've been wanting to do that since the moment you walked into this court."

Behind her, Bartholomew made a sound like a man who'd been gut-punched. "Isadora. What—what are you—"

She turned her head, still holding my gaze. "Bartholomew. Love. You've been at sea for six months of every year for the last decade. You can't possibly think I've been faithful."

His mouth opened and closed. The red in his face deepened, but it wasn't anger—I knew anger, had seen it in a hundred men's eyes. This was something else. Confusion, yes. Shock. But underneath it, something flickering that had nothing to do with rage.

"You're taking this remarkably well," I observed.

"I'm—" He stopped, swallowed. His hand went to his belt, adjusting it. His eyes dropped to where his wife's body pressed against mine, her soft belly against my hard length, and I saw the bulge in his breeches. "I'm trying to understand what I'm seeing."

Isadora laughed, that throaty sound, and reached down to take my cock in her hand. I hissed at the contact—her palm was warm, slightly calloused from years of working rope and sail alongside her husband. She stroked me once, slow, and I felt pre-cum bead at the tip.

"What you're seeing," she said, "is your wife about to get fucked on your table. By a prince. While you watch."

Bartholomew's throat worked. His hand had moved to the laces of his breeches, almost unconsciously. "Is that... is that what you want?"

"I want," she said, stroking me again, "to be filled. By someone who isn't gone half the year. By someone who looks at me like I'm a feast and not a fixture." Her eyes never left mine. "He looks at me like that."

I caught her wrist, stilled her hand. "Then let's not keep you waiting."

She made a sound of approval as I lifted her onto the table. The wood was cool beneath her, and she gasped, her back arching, her heavy breasts swaying with the movement. I spread her thighs and stepped between them, and she was already wet—I could feel the heat of her cunt against my cock, slick and ready.

Bartholomew's voice came from somewhere behind her. "You're—you're actually going to—"

I looked over her shoulder at him. His breeches were open now, his cock in his hand, half-hard and thickening as he watched his wife spread herself for me.

"She wants it," I said. "And I'm going to give it to her. You can watch, or you can leave. But I won't stop either way."

He didn't leave.

I drove into her in one stroke, and Isadora's cry filled the room—not pain, but pure, animal relief. Her cunt gripped me like a fist, hot and wet and hungry, and she wrapped her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper.

"Yes," she gasped. "Gods, yes, that's—that's what I needed—"

I set a rhythm, slow and deep, letting her feel every inch. Her head fell back, her braid pooling on the table beneath her, and her hands clawed at the wood as I fucked her. The sound of it—wet, rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin—filled the parlor, drowning out the crackle of the fire.

Behind her, Bartholomew had started stroking himself. I saw it in my peripheral vision—his thick fist working his cock, his eyes fixed on the place where I entered his wife, on the slick shine of her cunt stretched around me.

"That's it," he breathed, and there was wonder in his voice now, replacing the shock. "That's—look at her. Look at how she takes you."

Isadora laughed, breathless, her eyes glazed with pleasure. "He's got a better view than you, love. You're missing the best part."

I leaned down, covering her body with mine, and kissed her hard. Her tongue met mine, and her legs tightened around my waist, and I drove deeper, grinding against her clit with each stroke until she was whimpering into my mouth.

"You like that?" I murmured against her lips. "You like being fucked on your husband's table?"

"Yes," she gasped. "Gods, yes, I—oh, fuck—"

I pulled back just enough to look at her, to watch her face as I fucked her. Her eyes were rolled back, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed with heat. She was magnificent—a woman who'd been waiting years for this, who'd been starving without knowing it.

Bartholomew's voice came again, strained now. "Faster. Give it to her faster—she likes it fast, she always—" He cut himself off, as if hearing what he'd just said.

I grinned at him over her shoulder. "You know her well."

"I—" He swallowed, his fist working his cock in rhythm with my thrusts. "I know what she likes. I just... I was never there to give it to her."

I drove into her harder, and Isadora cried out, her nails raking down my back. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me," she gasped. "Don't you—fuck—don't you ruin this with guilt—"

"No guilt," I said. "Only pleasure. Only this." I thrust deep and held, grinding against her. "Tell me what you want."

"More. Faster. Don't stop—"

I gave her more. I gave her faster. I fucked her with a rhythm born of war tents and stolen moments, of knowing exactly how to push a body to its edge and hold it there. Isadora's moans rose in pitch, her legs trembling around my waist, her cunt clenching around me like she was trying to pull me deeper.

"I'm close," she gasped. "I'm—gods, I'm going to—"

"Wait," I said. "Not yet."

She cried out in frustration, but I didn't relent. I slowed instead, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, shallow and teasing, until she was begging—actually begging, her voice gone raw with need.

"Please. Please, I need—I need to come—"

"Not yet," I repeated. "I want your husband to see it. I want him to watch you fall apart on my cock."

Bartholomew made a strangled sound, and I glanced over to see him stroking himself faster, his face flushed, his eyes glued to his wife's spread thighs. "Yes," he groaned. "Yes, make her—make her come—"

I looked down at Isadora, at the desperate hunger in her eyes, and I gave her what she needed. I drove into her hard and fast, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles until her whole body went rigid.

She came screaming. Her cunt clamped down on me, rippling and clenching, and I felt her orgasm pull me to the edge. But I held back, watching her face as she shuddered through it, her eyes wide and blind, her mouth open in a silent cry.

Behind her, Bartholomew groaned and spilled over his fist, his cum splattering on the floor. "Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, that was—"

Isadora was still trembling, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. She reached up and pulled me down, kissing me deep and sloppy, her hips still rolling against mine.

"More," she whispered against my lips. "I want more."

I gave her more.

I picked her up off the table, her legs wrapping around my waist, and carried her to the chaise by the fire. She was light in my arms, all soft curves and warm flesh, and she gasped as I lowered her onto the cushions and drove into her again.

This angle was deeper, her weight pressing down, taking me fully. She moaned, her head falling back, her braid brushing the floor, and I fucked her with long, slow strokes that made her see stars.

Bartholomew had moved closer, his spent cock already stirring again as he watched. "Gods," he muttered. "She's—you're—" He shook his head, a laugh escaping him that was half-disbelief, half-awe. "I've never seen her like this."

"You've never watched," I said. "You've never let anyone see what she needs."

Isadora's eyes flew open, and she looked at her husband—really looked at him, for the first time since I'd entered her. "He's right," she said, her voice thick. "You were never there. But you're here now. Watch me. Watch me take him."

Bartholomew's hand found his cock again, stroking it back to full hardness. "I'm watching," he said. "I'm—I'm right here."

I fucked her harder, and she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Yes—yes, don't stop—I'm going to come again—"

"Let go," I said. "Let me feel it."

She came with a scream, her body arching off the chaise, her cunt milking me with violent pulses. I held myself at the edge, watching her face contort, and I saw Bartholomew spill again, groaning as he painted the floor with his release.

Isadora collapsed beneath me, limp and trembling. But her legs stayed wrapped around my waist, and her eyes found mine, dark and hungry.

"You haven't come yet," she said. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you come inside me."

I needed no further invitation. I drove into her one last time, deep and hard, and let go. My cock pulsed inside her, spilling hot and thick, and she moaned as she felt it, her cunt clenching around me, drawing out every drop.

When I finally pulled out, my cum leaked from her, glistening on her thighs. She lay there, panting, her body marked by what we'd done.

Bartholomew stood over us, his chest heaving, his eyes moving between his wife and the cum dripping from her cunt. He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

"I'm at sea more than half the year," he said, his voice rough. "I always have been. She needs someone to take care of her when I'm gone. Someone who looks at her the way you do."

He met my eyes, and there was something in his gaze that hadn't been there before—not defeat, but acceptance. A decision made.

"Do that," he said, "and I'm yours."

Isadora laughed, soft and warm, and reached up to touch my face. "Well, prince. It seems you've won more than a game of cards."

I looked down at her, then at her husband—the man who was giving me his wife, his loyalty, his place in the court. Another piece of the board sliding into place.

"I always do," I said.