Chapter 10: Discovering the Depths
The synchronized breathing dissolved. Yamato’s hand, resting on the soft scales, moved almost of its own volition. His calloused fingertips, used to the rough bite of guitar strings, traced the sharp, elegant line of Taichi’s hipbone. They skimmed upwards, mapping the smooth, cool expanse of skin above the scale line, feeling the faint ridges of old scars and the pronounced ladder of his ribs beneath.
Taichi’s eyes remained closed, his gills pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm. A faint, almost contented sigh left his lips. The trust in that stillness was terrifying.
Yamato’s palm slid back down, over the flat plane of Taichi’s stomach, past the navel, and settled once more where skin gave way to splendor. He could feel the individual scales, each one smooth and resilient. He pressed gently, wanting to feel the muscle beneath. His fingers drifted inward, toward the midline of Taichi’s body, where the scales formed a subtle, intricate pattern.
And there, he found it.
A seam. A hidden vertical slit, perfectly aligned, its edges softer than the surrounding armor. It yielded under the barest pressure of his middle finger.
He pushed in, just the tip.
Taichi gasped. His eyes flew open, amber blazing with shock. His entire body went rigid, a statue of tense muscle and shimmering scale. Inside, the slit was slick, impossibly hot, and it clutched at Yamato’s fingertip with a velvety, surprising strength.
“What are you—” Taichi’s voice was a ragged scrape of sound. His hand shot down, fingers closing like a vice around Yamato’s wrist.
But he didn’t pull him away. He just held him there, trapped at the precipice.
Yamato’s own breath was coming in short, sharp pulls. He could smell the ocean on Taichi’s skin, the strange, clean scent of his saliva drying on his neck. His mind was a white noise of desire, all empathy burning away into a single, focused need. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He pushed deeper.
His finger slid in to the second knuckle, then to the base. The heat was immense. The inner walls fluttered and gripped him, a slick, rhythmic pulse that had nothing to do with fear. It was a greeting. An invitation.
Taichi’s head fell back against the thin pillow, a sharp, throaty sound tearing from him—a moan shredded by a hiss. His claws dug into Yamato’s wrist, not to bruise, but to anchor. His tail gave a heavy, involuntary thump against the floorboards.
“Fuck,” Yamato whispered, the word swallowed by the storm.
He began to move. A slow, probing withdrawal, then a deeper, curling thrust. The wet noise was obscenely loud in the intimate space between them. He could feel the texture inside now, velvety ridges and astonishing, clenched heat. He added a second finger, stretching the slick entrance, and Taichi cried out, his back arching off the mattress.
“Yamato.” It was a warning, a plea, a name becoming a curse.
“I know,” Yamato muttered, though he knew nothing. He was learning. He crooked his fingers, seeking.
Taichi jolted as if speared, a guttural, clicking sound rising from his throat. His grip on Yamato’s wrist became frantic. “There. There.”
Yamato focused on that spot, rubbing the pad of his finger over a firm, swollen ridge inside the dripping channel. Taichi’s composure shattered. His hips began to move in short, aborted thrusts, meeting each probing touch. The proud prince was coming apart under his hand, reduced to a series of raw, hungry sounds.
Yamato watched, mesmerized. Taichi’s sheathed cock, a hidden bulge Yamato hadn’t dared acknowledge, was now fully emerged, thick and flushed a deep coral, pulsing against his own stomach. Precum beaded at the tip.
The sight destroyed the last of Yamato’s restraint. He withdrew his soaked fingers. Taichi whined at the loss, a desperate, feral noise.
“Shhh,” Yamato breathed, shifting his own body. He fumbled with the button of his trousers, shoving them down just enough to free his own aching cock. He was so hard it hurt, leaking and eager. He positioned himself over Taichi, the head of his cock nudging against that slick, used opening.
Taichi’s eyes met his, wide and wild. “Do it,” he snarled, his voice thick. “Or I will tear your throat out.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise of what this need had become.
Yamato pushed inside.
The tight, clutching heat was unbelievable. It was wetter and hotter than anything he’d ever known, a silken vise that welcomed him with a brutal, gripping urgency. He sank in slowly, his own groan lost in Taichi’s sharp intake of breath. He bottomed out, their hips flush, his own nestled against the scale-rough skin of Taichi’s tail base.
For a second, they were frozen, locked together, feeling the furious pound of each other's hearts.
Then Yamato moved.
He set a punishing, deep rhythm from the start, each pull and thrust a raw, wet slide. The bedframe slammed against the wall in time with their bodies. Taichi clawed at his back, his hips lifting to meet every drive, his tail coiling and thrashing for leverage. Filthy, beautiful sounds spilled from him—hisses, clicks, broken human words that were mostly curses.
“Yes—harder—more—”
Yamato fucked into him with a desperation that felt like dying. His world narrowed to the feel of that incredible channel milking him, to the sight of Taichi unraveling beneath him, his sharp features twisted in pleasure, his princely arrogance obliterated. He leaned down, capturing Taichi’s mouth in a brutal kiss, tasting the ocean and the unique, metallic tang of his healing saliva. It burned on his tongue, a catalyst, pouring gasoline on the fire in his blood.
He was going to come. Too fast. It was too much.
He reached between them, his hand wrapping around Taichi’s cock. It was hot and smooth, like polished stone, and it throbbed in his grip. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, his grip tight, his thumb smearing the copious fluid over the head.
Taichi’s body locked. A raw, shattered cry was torn from his lungs, soundless at first, then rising into a wild, keening wail that seemed to echo the wind outside. His channel clamped down on Yamato’s cock in a series of rhythmic, brutal spasms, and hot release striped his own stomach and Yamato’s fist.
The violent squeezing was the end. Yamato drove in once, twice more, and then his own orgasm ripped through him with blinding force. He came deep inside Taichi, a hot, endless pulse, his shout muffled against Taichi’s shoulder.
He collapsed, spent, his weight pressing Taichi into the mattress. The only sounds were their ragged, gasping breaths and the relentless rain. Yamato’s face was buried in the curve of Taichi’s neck, where the scent of his own saliva and Taichi’s skin mingled. He was still inside him, softened, locked in the warm, wet aftermath.
Taichi’s hand, which had been clawing at his back, slowly uncurled. His fingers came to rest, trembling, on Yamato’s sweat-damp hair.
Outside, the storm’s fury began, finally, to ebb. The thunder rolled away, grumbling in the distance. In the sudden, comparative quiet, Yamato became aware of a new sound. A low, rhythmic, clicking hum, resonating from deep within Taichi’s chest. It vibrated through both of their bodies where they were joined.
It didn’t sound like pain. It sounded like peace.