The door slammed behind her.
Nia stepped onto the upper deck—face flushed, lips swollen, thighs still wet with the taste of Kamara between them. Her uniform was half-wrinkled, hair mussed, neck shiny with sweat.
And everyone noticed.
Crew members froze.
A few guests stared.
Nia was always the clean one. The calm one. Military posture, razor-sharp presence. But now?
Her lips were pink. Her eyes glazed.
And her thighs? Still slick between every slow, heavy step.
She straightened instantly, pulling her cap low, tightening her jacket.
“Captain Nia, we’ve got reports of blood on the west end of the ship,” someone said, trying not to stare at the flushed skin beneath her collar. “Passenger missing. SOS confirmed. Could be a jumper.”
Her jaw clenched. “Where?”
“Starboard railing.”
She
