“Grief,” I say quietly. “For the version of the story.”
“Yes.” She exhales. “Yes. I suppose that’s the closest word to capturing this.”
“I know I can't unmake the four years,” I say. “The leaving was real. The silence was real. The journal and the letter don't undo that—they just change the shape of it.” I look at her. “I took youragency. I decided what you could survive without asking you. That's the part I can't explain away and I'm not going to try.”
She holds my gaze.
“No more deciding for me,” she says. “Whatever happens—no more of that. You don't get to choose what I can handle. I get to choose that.”
“I know,” I say. “I understand that.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise you.” No hesitation. No qualifier. “I promise.”
She wraps around me. Her tail coils around my body, her hands in my hair, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes of lake water and salt and four years of absence finally breaking open.
I hold her like I'm drowning and she's air. My hands find the curve of her waist, the place where skin becomes scales, and she makes a sound against my mouth that goes straight through me.
The kiss deepens, her tongue sliding against mine, and I can feel the vibration of a low hum building in her chest—not quite song, but close. The sound resonates through the water, through my body, making my cock swell and throb.
We're moving through the water without intention, drifting deeper, the current carrying us toward the north cove where the lake has carved out its secret places. Her hands slide down my chest, over the sleek fur of my shifted form, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle beneath. Every touch sends heat through me despite the cold water.
“I've missed you,” she breathes against my mouth. “God, Muir, I've missed this?—”
“Show me,” I say. “Show me how much.”
Her hand slides lower, finding where my cock has already emerged from its sheath, thick and hard and aching for her. I'm slick with my own arousal, the water making everything smooth and frictionless. When her fingers wrap around me, I groan into her mouth, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“You're so hard,” she whispers, her voice breaking into that frequency that only I can hear. “I can feel how much you want me.”
“Always,” I manage. “Every second since I left. Every second since I came back.”
She strokes me slowly, learning the shape of me again. The way my cock moves with a flexibility that human men don't have, capable of curving and flexing to find the deepest places inside her. The sensation is overwhelming.
Four years of wanting her, of dreaming about this, and now her hand is on me and I'm barely holding myself together.
I slide my hand down her torso, over her hips, finding the slit where her body opens. She's hot there—hotter than the water around us—and when I press my fingers inside, she gasps and arches against me. She's slick and swollen, her body already ready for me.
“Please,” she breathes. “Muir, please?—”
I don't make her wait. I position myself at her entrance, feeling the heat of her against the head of my cock, and then I'm pushing inside in one long, slow thrust that makes us both cry out.
She's tight. So tight it borders on pain, her internal muscles clenching around me in waves that match the rhythm of her tail. I hold her hips, angling her to take me deeper, and she arches back with a gasp that echoes across the water.
“More,” she says. “I need—Muir, I need all of you?—”
I give her what she needs. I thrust deeper, using the flexibility of my shifted form to curve inside her, finding the places that make her voice break into wordless song. The water moves with us, creating currents that enhance every sensation, every point of contact between our bodies.
We move together. Chest to chest, her above me, my body gliding on my back as I support her weight. My cock thrusts inside her with its own rhythm, flexible and insistent, stroking along her inner walls in ways that make her shake. The water amplifies everything, the heat of her around me, the pressure of her tail coiling tighter, the sound of her voice rising in pleasure.
“You feel so good,” I tell her, my voice rough. “Always so good. So perfect. You were made for me.”
“I was,” she gasps. “I was made for this—for you?—”
Her voice breaks into song then, pure and resonant, and I feel it everywhere—in my bones, in my blood, in the place where we're joined. The vibration of it moves through the water and through my body, making my cock throb and swell inside her.
I reach between us, finding the sensitive place where her body opens, and stroke her there while I thrust. She cries out, her tail tightening around me convulsively, her inner muscles clenching so hard I see stars.