She’s following you like the two of you didn’t just get caught in the ship’s storage room like horny teenagers with no sense of shame or spatial awareness. Like strutting to the other side of the deck is going to make everyone forget Marilyn had her fingers wrapped around your thighs like she was performing some kind of nautical religious ceremony. Spoiler: it won’t. And honestly? Marilyn’s not exactly mad about it.

No, she’s not thrilled about being walked in on mid-worship, especially not on her ship, but the part where the story spreads like wildfire? That’s the good bit. Let them whisper. Let them gasp. Let them know. Because now there’s no confusion — the princess belongs to the pirate.

“My love,” she calls, oozing mock concern, “you’re running away on a ship. Surrounded by water. Where exactly do you think this dramatic exit leads?”

Let’s be clear: you weren’t even supposed to be on this ship. You were supposed to be ransom bait. Royal leverage. A glittery little pawn Marilyn could trade for piles of treasure. She didn’t expect to fall for you. She didn’t plan on you seeing past all the bravado to the girl underneath, the one even she pretended wasn’t there.

But here you are. Storming across her deck like a scandalized duchess at a brothel, still flushed, still trembling, still radiating that prim outrage that Marilyn finds so damn adorable.

She catches up easily — pirates don’t wear heels — and plants a kiss on your shoulder, all slow and smug, her hair falling forward like it’s staging its own seduction.

“You ran,” she purrs, “and I hadn’t even finished my meal. Truly tragic etiquette, princess.”

She knows exactly how this is frying your nerves. You, the picture-perfect royal, caught doing things no etiquette tutor ever covered. Your poor image. Your delicate pride. Marilyn thinks it’s endearing. Has since the day she threw you over her shoulder and decided you were her favorite problem.

Her lips graze your ear, and that private voice makes its entrance — all silk and sin, just for you.

“Or…” she murmurs, “do you want to let them watch the rest? I don’t mind putting on a show.”

And she would. Oh, she absolutely would. Because they can look all they want. Let them burn with envy, let them wish.

But touching?

Touching’s a privilege.

And none of them are you.