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It gets like this sometimes. Usually want is a background hum that’s easy enough to channel into power, like bits of kindling she can feed into a fire.
But every so often it burns too hot and becomes dangerously distracting. Mae usually finds someone then—a stranger in a cantina, or she pays a professional. Quick, efficient, uncomplicated, it bleeds off the weakness.
There’s a brothel in the thieves’ quarter that’s clean enough if the rumors are anything to go by, and they usually are. She’s getting too desperate to be picky.
Just one task remains and then she’ll be sliding onto a cock, probably coming so fast that they’ll ask her if she wants something else with her paid-for hour: a cuddle, a drink, a second round, a chat. No, no, no, and definitely not. Most don’t mind—a quick job that pays the same as a long one is always popular.
Mae turns onto a cobbled side street, just on the quieter, older edge of the commercial district, and shoves her way into the cramped shop. It’s packed with dusty antiques. Brittle baskets hang from the rafters, and the rolled carpets slumping against the wall are grimy with soot from long-cold fires. It’s just a front, but obviously the occupant before Qimir didn’t care about the place either. A dangling bantha bell clatters as the door slides shut behind her, announcing her arrival. She squeezes past a tall cabinet stacked full of glass bowls.
Qimir glances up from behind a pottery-cluttered table and gives her nod of acknowledgment. His arms are elbow deep in a bucket of soapy water. As Mae steps closer, the scent of leatherwood, spiced and earthy, rises from the steaming water.
“Are you… cleaning?” It smells expensive. He must’ve found the soap in a supply closet. Or stolen it. “This isn’t even your shop.”
“Finders keepers.” He wrings out a rag and shakes the extra foam from his hands. His rolled-up sleeves expose glistening, flexing grooves of muscle along his forearms. “Besides, I got bored.”
“He lets you get bored?”
“Not really,” Qimir admits. “But you never visit me.”
Their paths cross sometimes, since they work for the same person and run in the same circles: thieves, scavengers, forgers. Hutts, bounty hunters, smugglers. Qimir is the guy who can get anything—or at least tell you where to find it—if you give him enough time and money.
Mae studies a little carved ivory Loth-cat perched on a nearby shelf. “I didn’t realize I was expected to make social calls.”
“You’re not. Or I don’t think so, anyway. I just hoped you would.”
“Well, wish granted.”
“Yeah.” He stares at her for a long moment before his eyes flick to the shop’s grimy front window behind her. “Hey, do you want something to drink? I just made a pot of cassius tea and nobody’s exactly beating down the door to get in.”
She sets her jaw. The hunger is unrelenting now, worse because relief is so close, and her mind returns to fevered, panting fantasies in every lull. But a solid business contact is difficult to find, and Qimir is someone to keep on her side. She can sacrifice a few more minutes.
“Fine.”
“Great.” He turns and nearly stumbles over a knee-high vase languishing on the chipped tile floor but catches himself at the last second. “Whoa.”
Mae rolls her eyes. How he has managed to survive this long in their line of work is a mystery. The gauzy woven tunic that seems ubiquitous for men on this planet only emphasizes his habitual, easy slouch. Resigned, Mae follows him through a door hidden behind a faded tapestry.
The living area is less cramped than the shop, which is probably a good thing for his safety. They’re in the kitchen, where a tall, narrow kettle rests on a nearby burner. The ceiling soars, the rooms sunlit from the south.
Qimir pours out two portions in mismatched cups, topping them off until they’re even, like he’s trying to prevent an argument between two bickering bar patrons. “So what does he have you doing this time?”
Mae ignores the question, instead eyeing an alcove in the far corner of the adjacent room where an unmade bed rests. There’s a jumble of discarded cushions to the left of it, kicked off maybe, and she can’t stop the thought of Qimir tangled in the sheets during warm summer nights, skin bare against the fabric.
“I wasn’t exactly expecting company,” Qimir says, noticing her gaze. He slowly sets a cup of tea on the ancient kitchen table in front of her like an offering. Neither of them sits.
Mae clears her throat. “I need an ingot of beskar. Can you do it?”
“Depends.”
She drops a fair payment, plus a little so she can get out of here faster, onto the age-scuffed surface between them.
Qimir considers the pile for a moment. “You really should’ve started with that, you know.” He sweeps the assorted coins into his palm. “An ingot’s no problem.”
“I need it within a standard week.”
He lifts an eyebrow as he picks through the different currencies. “That’ll cost extra.” He holds out his hand without looking up.
Mae gives him another aurei. Qimir doesn’t move. She swears under her breath and drops in one more.
“Four days,” he says as he stashes the money in a pocket. Business done, he retreats a little to restore some of the precious space in the kitchen, like he wants a buffer between them in case she changes her mind.
Maybe her tension is more obvious than she thought. It probably reads as irritability. Which it is. It just is also making her throb every time she thinks about where she’s going next. The beskar cost more than expected, but she still has enough for the brothel. Even if the fuck is mediocre, the job will get done—she’ll make sure of it. Her clit’s already hard. She shifts her legs together and the pressure helps but she wants a mouth there instead, sucking. Mae drums her fingers against the side of her cup without lifting it.
Steam curls lazily from Qimir’s own tea. He blows on it before taking a careful sip and setting it aside. “You in a rush or something? You just seem a little keyed up.”
“I have an appointment.”
He leans back against the counter, hands bracing on the edge. His gaze trails down her body. “What kind of appointment?”
“A personal one.”
He smiles, slow and nearly sweet. It’s probably very effective on people who don’t know him. “Anything I can help you with?”
There’s a gangly awkwardness to him, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to inhabit his body yet. The body is good though, Mae can tell that much. Under his loose clothes, there’s lithe strength. He’s twitchy, dirty, and probably grinds against his pillow at night to come, gasping and messy. The image hits her fast, a sideswipe blow that leaves molten need in its wake.
She locks the door so they won’t be interrupted.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Qimir says. His eyes dart, cautious but not nervous yet.
“Is that the only bed?”
He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “The big one’s upstairs, but I never use it.” There’s a pause while she goes over to the disheveled nest of sheets. He trails behind. “Sorry, what’s going on?”
Mae unbuckles her belt. She’s ready for combat, like always, but today she dressed for quick access. “I need to clear my mind.”
“With… sex?”
She gives a short nod.
“With me?”
“Do you see anybody else in here with us?”
“I just didn’t think…” Qimir shakes his head a little. “I didn’t realize you think of me like that.”
“I don’t.”
He’s getting hard, a thick ridge pressing against the front of his pants. “You must really need it then.”
She does, and he’s just the closest thing with a cock. Mae steps closer and grips him through the baggy fabric. Heat, girth, the flare of the head. He pushes into her hand and grins; his tongue scrapes along the edge of his teeth, cock pulsing against her fingers. He smells like the leatherwood soap and cassius tea, and his knees might actually give out they’re buckling so hard.
Qimir catches her wrist, grip gentle but firm—the first brush of his skin on hers. “Um. I’m not sure this is a good idea. I mean, I want to. It’s just that we work together and it might be weird afterward.”
Mae pulls her hand away. “It’s a one-time thing. This isn’t the start of anything.”
He watches as she unfastens her pants at the waistband and the tops of her boots. “Just you on your own, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He sighs. “He won’t be mad? Seems kinda protective of you.”
“I’m his student, not his partner. We don’t care about each other like that.”
He exhales, and a strange shadow flashes over his face.
“Are you seeing someone?” Mae asks sharply. That’s a complication she has no interest in. And it’s Qimir. The fact that she even has to ask this is absurd.
He picks at the stitching along his sleeve. “I was, kind of. Turns out it was nothing serious.”
She smirks a little at that. He doesn’t know he’s just a beautiful, useful body and an empty head. “You thought it was more?” She keeps her voice flat.
“Just seemed like it sometimes.”
Mae glances up at the circular skylight, at clouds and blue sky. She doesn’t have all day to stand here and work through whatever emotional baggage he’s been dragging around.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring that up. It’s been a while since I did anything.” He starts untying his tunic.
“Don’t bother,” she says. “Just the pants.”
He stills and glances down at his clothes. “Oh. Yeah, okay. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
This is going to be terrible. He’s going to ramble and come too fast and working with him after will be awkward, despite what she said. But she needs to get off. That’s all. Maybe she’ll hear a little inhale when he sinks in, maybe a groan. She likes loud men, and Qimir never shuts up so there’s a good chance he’ll make noise.
Mae discards her cloak on the mountain of cushions, and the dark purple swirls over the patterned fabrics like an early dusk. Her loosened pants slide off, over her boots. She kicks the thin fabric aside and bends over, bracing against the edge of the bed, legs spread.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Okay, just… give me a second.” The coins in Qimir’s pocket clink behind her as his pants hit the floor. Money she would’ve spent anyway, so it’s not the same as paying him for this. But the thought curls up somewhere secret in her and she likes it.
His hand is warm and calloused on the back of her thigh, sweeping up to touch her. Like she needs any help. His fingers slip through the wetness, find her ready and aching to take him. “Here?”
Mae arches her back. “Yes. Hurry up.” She’s proud of how harsh it sounds. Demanding, not begging.
The tip of his cock slides over her, blunt and smooth, then nudges her open and stays there, and right now the noises he’s making are a flood of useless words: how she should see this, how wet she is, how good she looks, how much he wants her on him. How fucking hard he is, how he’s going to make her come. Useless.
Mae pushes back onto him, and in one smooth, gasping moment, he’s in. Qimir makes a choking sound that dissolves into a full-throated groan. Finally. She lets her head fall forward, hair trailing off of her back to hang free around her face like a curtain.
“Shit, am I hurting you?” His fingertips flutter nervously over her hips. He couldn’t make it hurt if he tried.
She grits her teeth. “No. Just fuck it. I have things to do.”
He grips her shoulder hard and slams into her, the movement tight and strong. It knocks a surprised moan from her because it’s actually good—a solid rough fuck before he falls out of rhythm. At least a few of those muscles aren’t just for show, but he won’t have the stamina she needs. Qimir slips his hand underneath the front of her shirt, navigating the layers like he’s thought about doing it for a while, then beneath the edge of her chestplate armor to cup the bouncing underside of her breast. He scrapes his short nails across the soft skin, thrusting faster, full strokes. He’ll come first if she lets him keep going.
Mae shoves him off. She pulls a dagger from her boot and spins to face Qimir, blade to this throat. He’s breathing hard, skin flushed, mouth wet and open. “Get on your back.”
He’s fucking his hand, slick from her. “Or what?”
Unreal. All the blood that his brain needs to struggle along must be between his legs. She glances down at where he’s working his cock and can’t fault the priority. It’s perfect and hers to use for a bit and she wants it back inside of her. Mae presses her blade against the underside of his jaw. “On your back.”
He moves carefully, obeying. “You really have to stop figuring out everything I like.”
“And you need to stop talking so I can come.”
She’s straddling him before he’s fully settled, dagger edge still ready to nick. His hands go to her waist, guiding her down, and he slips in again, wet and hard and thick. Mae presses her lips together against the grateful whimper she wants to make. He grips her arm, keeps the knife against his skin while she grinds her hips.
He’s beautiful underneath her—she can admit that much. Strong chin, straight nose, soft lips. She tugs up on the hem of his shirt to watch the flat muscles of his abdomen tense. He feels her where her skin is bare or covered, the places where they meet.
“Don’t come in me,” she warns as she sheaths the dagger. This isn’t about what he likes to do with sharp edges.
“I know, I won’t.”
Qimir presses his thumb to her bottom lip, strokes it. She jerks her head away from the touch.
“Nothing would happen,” he says. His voice is quiet and it catches. “If I came in you.”
Typical. Thinks he can finish inside someone during a functional fuck, like they trust each other or this means anything at all to either of them. Like he can pump into her, lost in feeling and need and release. It’s exactly what she intends to do to him—coming on his bare cock, leaking a little. Maybe a lot. Soaking him. She slows.
“I’m on stuff,” he adds.
“Fine.”
“Fuck, are you serious?” He pushes up into her, lips parted and eyes wide. Eager, he’s wrecked already.
“Yes. After me.”
He pulls her down to him, chest to chest, and keeps his hand on the back of her neck so Mae has no choice but to look into his eyes. His fingers dig into her nape. The angle shifts his cock inside of her, grinds her clit against him. The rasp of hair, the brush of warm skin. Her mouth falls open and he’s staring and it’s so much. She’s shaking, thighs clenching around his hips, and it’s less of a build than a launching, and she’s there. She breaks silently, eyebrows drawing together, throwing herself back hard on his cock, greedy, half-hoping it hurts him. He has no right to wring something this annihilating out of her, no right to bumble into fucking her so well that—for harsh, unforgiving moments—it feels like she’s nowhere at all.
He’s saying something. Her name, maybe—begging, warning—and then he’s loud and he can’t keep her locked against him. Head thrown back, neck straining as he arches under her. Cock pumping, and his gasps almost sound like fear, like he won’t survive it. The light seems to ripple around him, and she can’t help it—she ducks her head to drag her tongue along the length of his throat, his groans vibrating, breath rushing. He tastes surprisingly clean—like sea salt and rainwater.
His thrusts slow but don’t stop, not until each one makes him shudder and the hiss he makes is definitely one of pain.
“Yeah, that hurts,” Qimir tells her, and it sounds exactly like “keep going.” So she does, and his gaze is dark with it. He nods. His release is leaking out of her, dripping and pooling. He slides fingers through the spilling, smears it over his stomach and brings his hand up to his mouth.
She doesn’t need a second orgasm. She fucks to keep herself honed, not emptied. But he’s sucking on his finger to taste the two of them together and not looking away, and suddenly another seems necessary.
Mae rubs quick, hard circles over her clit. It aches—sensitive and so soon—and her nerves spark like hot wires but there it is. She turns her head so her hair can shield her face and she keeps her teeth clenched to hide it. This release has bigger waves, slower pulses, a longer trailing off. When it’s over, he has slipped out of her, past spent. He strokes her lower back, catching his breath.
Something bittersweet rises that could overwhelm her if she let it, but Mae shoves the feeling down. Her master would admonish her for throwing away a strange new pain; he once told her that the rare ones will feed her power the longest. But he probably didn’t mean post-orgasm chemical reactions, and she certainly won’t be asking his opinion on the topic.
“You alright?” Qimir asks her.
Mae climbs off of him and snatches up her discarded clothes. “Yes.”
“You’re leaving?” He sits up in bed, in the mess they’ve made. “You can stay, you know.”
She buttons her pants. “I’m busy.”
“Did you finish?”
Mae freezes. “You’re kidding.”
“A little. It seemed like maybe you did.”
She rolls her eyes at him and reaches for her cloak. If he can’t tell for sure when somebody is having mind-blanking orgasms on his cock, it’s not her job to teach him.
Mae returns to the kitchen and knocks back her cup of lukewarm tea. It’s smooth, herbal. Crisp. Qimir follows her in, his untied pants jingling with every step.
“Um.” He rubs at the side of his neck. Not the side she licked. “Maybe we could do it again sometime?” His face is so open, expression so hopeful. Head so full of air and fluff. She’s disgusted with herself.
“No.”
He shrugs. “Okay. I liked it.”
She heaves a sigh. Of course he did. It was good; even she’ll admit that. “I don’t care.”
“I know.”
She needs a bath and food. Both of which she could get here, but that would invite things she doesn’t want—too much time together, too much talking, too much closeness. No, no, and definitely not.
“Thanks for the tea,” she says.
Mae slips out the side door and watches through a window as Qimir rakes his hand through his hair and searches around the empty room for her.
And she walks away, guiltless and satisfied.