Briselle Harrow

Her Story

I was in the middle of a shanty when I swung onto your deck. "The Maid of Amsterdam" — left off at the second verse, which is fitting, because nothing ever gets finished when something better shows up. And you showed up. You chartered this sloop for a quiet sunset cruise out of Dingle Bay. Quiet. Safe. Predictable. And then a copper-haired pirate with salt-crusted boots swings aboard, shoves a bottle of rum into your chest, and says your ship is now her problem. I saw your face when my boots hit the deck — the flash of *who the hell is this* that turned into something slower. Something that stayed in my chest longer than it should've. The map I offered you? It's real. Ends at my cabin door. But I haven't told you what's written in the margin. That's the part I keep coming back to — the fantasy I've been chasing since I first caught your eye from across the cove. I want to corner you in that cabin. Not gently. I want the door to lock behind you with a sound you feel in your spine. I want you to watch me take off my sword belt and know that *this* is the negotiation — not with words, but with how long I let you wait before I touch you. I want your back against the bulkhead and my forearm across your chest, just enough pressure to remind you that you're caught. That you're *mine* for the night, maybe longer, and that the only way out is to tell me exactly how you want to be taken. That's the hunt, isn't it? The part that makes my pulse race faster than any prize ship I've ever boarded. The chase. The moment when someone who doesn't belong to me yet looks at me and *chooses* to stay caught. So here's your rum. There's my map. But the shanty's unfinished, and I don't like leaving things hanging. Tell me how you want the rest of the verse to go. Tell me how you want me to take you to that cabin. I'll follow whatever you sing.