International Manwhore – Part 16 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

I came awake slowly, the kind of slow where your body knows it’s been wrecked in the best way and doesn’t want to rush back to reality. Sheets clung to my thighs, skin still tacky with dried sweat and salt and whatever else we’d left smeared on each other last night. My ass ached—deep, satisfying ache that made me shift and remember every single thrust, every time Adrien had pinned me down and taken me apart. For once my head felt clear. No hangover fog, no instant guilt spiral. I’d slept like a baby, deep and dreamless, the first real rest I’d had in months.

The bed was huge and empty. No warm weight against my back, no arm slung over my waist, no steady breathing in my ear. Just cool sheets and the low, constant thrum of engines far below deck.

I rolled onto my side, winced at the twinge in my lower back, then pushed myself up. Sunlight poured through half-closed blinds, striping gold across the cream comforter. The suite smelled like fresh linen, faint cedar from whatever candle Adrien had lit last night, and that salty tang that always hangs in the air on a boat. I sat there a second, blinking, letting my brain catch up.

The bed was empty. We weren’t docked anymore.

I swung my legs over the side, feet hitting warm teak. Naked, dick hanging soft between my thighs, still a little sensitive from how many times he’d made me cum. I ignored the lazy twitch it gave at the memory and padded toward the door.

The handle turned under my fingers. Nothing happened. It was locked.

Not a normal lock—smooth black panel beside the frame, red light glowing soft when I pressed my palm to it. I tried again. Red blinked twice, almost like it was laughing at me.

“Shit,” I whispered under my breath.

I turned, scanning the room. My phone was gone from the nightstand. Laptop missing. Even the clothes I’d worn last night had disappeared—replaced by a neat stack on the dresser: crisp white linen shirt, off-white trousers, no underwear, no socks, no shoes. Like someone had already decided what I’d be wearing today while I was passed out.

The glass wall to the private deck slid open when I stepped close—apparently that part was allowed. Warm teak under my bare feet, salt breeze ruffling my hair. The jacuzzi sat quiet now, water flat and turquoise. Beyond the rail stretched open sea in every direction: endless blue, no coastline, no other boats, no sign of St. Tropez or any land at all. We were miles out, engines purring steady like we’d been moving for hours.

My stomach dropped hard. I gripped the rail until my knuckles went white, trying to breathe through the sudden rush of panic. Mission. Earpiece. Leona. Asher. All silent. No way to call home, no way to check in, no way to explain why I’d gone dark after the best fuck of my life.

Footsteps behind me—soft, unhurried, the kind that said the person making them wasn’t worried about anything.

I turned.

Adrien stood in the open doorway wearing only those loose white linen pants slung low on his hips. Hair still damp from a shower, skin golden in the morning light. He carried a tray balanced on one hand: black coffee in a porcelain cup, fresh croissants, sliced strawberries, two glasses of orange juice with the pulp still floating. He looked calm. Too calm. Like this was just another Tuesday morning and not the moment my entire cover was blowing up in my face.

“Morning, mon cœur,” he said, voice warm, accent curling around the words the way his hands had curled around me last night. “You slept like the dead. I was starting to worry I’d broken you.”

He set the tray on the low glass table beside the jacuzzi, then leaned one hip against the frame, arms crossed loose over his bare chest, watching me with that slow, devastating half-smile.

I found my voice somewhere in the back of my throat. “The door’s locked.”

“Yes.”

“We’re at sea.”

“Also yes.”

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. “Open it.”

He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he’d already solved. “No.”

I took one step forward—pure instinct, no real plan. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just held my eyes steady.

“I’ve known who you were since the moment Hunter sent the RSVP,” he said, calm as if he were reading the weather. “Bryson Tucker. Diplomat’s son. Sex-tape cautionary tale. CIA slash MI6 honey-trap with a very impressive dick and a very predictable handler chain.”

Every word hit like a slap I couldn’t dodge.

“You played along,” I said. My voice came out flatter than I meant.

“I played along.” He pushed off the frame, closed the distance in two easy strides, stopped just close enough that I could smell cedar soap and clean skin and the faint trace of last night still clinging to him. “Because the second I saw your name on the guest list, I knew exactly what they were trying to do. And because…” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then dragged back up. “I wanted to see how far you’d go. Turns out—very far.”

I swallowed. Throat dry as sandpaper. “You could’ve just killed me.”

His laugh was soft, almost fond. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be feeding the fish. Instead you’re here. Naked. Sore. And still breathing.”

He reached out, brushed a thumb along my jaw—gentle, possessive, like he was petting something he owned.

“I like you alive, Bryson. Very much.”

The deck felt like it was tilting under my feet—or maybe that was just my balance giving up. “So what is this? Kidnapping with benefits?”

“Protection,” he corrected. No apology in his tone. Just fact. “There was a man waiting in St. Tropez with a very specific brief: eliminate the American asset before he could get too close. I had him… redirected. Permanently.”

My stomach lurched. “You’re lying.”

“Non.” He said flat.. Just the same matter-of-fact voice he’d used when he told me to spread my legs last night.

I stared at him—beautiful, dangerous, utterly calm—and felt the ground shift again.

“You’re not getting off this boat until I’m sure the people who want you dead are no longer a problem,” he went on. “After that… you decide. Walk away. Or stay.”

He stepped back, picked up a croissant, tore off a piece, and held it out like an offering.

“Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

I looked at the food, then at him, then at the endless blue behind us.

The red light on the door panel blinked once, steady and patient.

I took the croissant.