Chapter 23: The Prince's Appetite
The days in the grotto blurred, marked only by the subtle shifting of light filtering from cracks high above and the constant, comforting pulse of the water. Yamato learned the rhythm of the place—the times when the tide pulled back, leaving the air cool and thick, and the times when it returned, whispering through the submerged tunnels. He’d given up trying to count them. His world had narrowed to the stone walls, the kelp bed, and Taichi.
He was tracing the scars on Taichi’s flank, old white lines against vibrant orange, when his hand stilled. His fingers had been wandering, following the natural taper of the merman’s torso, when he felt it. A new curve. A firm, gentle swell just below Taichi’s navel, where the scales were at their softest.
He froze.
Taichi, who had been drowsing, one arm thrown over his eyes, went very still. He didn’t move, but Yamato felt the tension coiling in the muscle beneath his touch.
Yamato pressed his palm flat against it. It wasn’t much. Just a rounded firmness that definitely hadn’t been there before. A promise. His breath escaped in a rush of bubbles. He looked up, his ocean eyes wide.
Taichi lowered his arm. His amber gaze was sharp, watching Yamato’s face with an intensity that was almost predatory. Then, slowly, a smirk spread across his lips. It was a proud, fierce thing, full of a savage satisfaction.
“You’ve done your job well, land-walker,” Taichi said, his voice that low, rasping purr. He arched his back slightly, pushing the subtle swell more firmly into Yamato’s hand.
A shudder ran through Yamato. Wonder, terror, a possessive thrill so sharp it hurt. His. It was real. The thought was dizzying.
“But,” Taichi continued, the smirk turning wicked, “I’m not satisfied yet.” He shifted, his powerful tail stirring the water as he rolled onto his back on the bed of damp moss. The slick slit at the base of his tail was already glistening, a hint of pink flesh visible, wet and ready.
“I need more,” Taichi said, his tone dropping, becoming a command that vibrated in the water between them. His eyes glittered. “Come take me again.” He hooked a claw-tipped finger in a come-hither gesture. “Fuck me until I’m full to bursting.”
The words, crude and direct, shot through Yamato like a lightning strike. The healing saliva that had passed between them a hundred times now thrummed in his veins, a constant, low-grade need that roared to life. His cock, already half-hard from simply touching Taichi, thickened painfully fast, jutting against his own belly.
He moved without thought. The water offered resistance, a sensual drag against his skin as he positioned himself over Taichi’s splayed tail. He grasped his own length, gave himself two rough, slick strokes, and then guided the head to Taichi’s entrance. He rubbed it there, through the gathering wetness, teasing the swollen flesh. Taichi hissed, his hips bucking up.
“Stop playing,” the merman growled, his claws digging into the moss.
Yamato obeyed. He pushed forward, not slowly, but with a single, deep, claiming thrust that buried him to the hilt in one stroke.
Taichi cried out, a raw, ragged sound that echoed off the stone. His back arched off the moss, his head thrown back, tendons standing out in his neck. His inner walls clenched around Yamato, a hot, silken vise. “Yes,” he gasped. “Fuck, yes. Just like that.”
Yamato pulled back and slammed home again. And again. He found a rhythm that was less about grace and more about conquest, a driving, piston-like force that made the water churn around them. He gripped Taichi’s hips, his calloused musician’s fingers pressing into the softer scale-less skin there, holding him down, holding him open.
The sounds were obscene. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin and scale, the choked gasps, the thick, juicy noise of Yamato’s cock spearing into Taichi’s soaked channel over and over.
“Harder,” Taichi demanded, his voice breaking. He raked his claws down Yamato’s arms, drawing thin, stinging lines that bloomed with a faint warmth—the healing touch laced with pain. “Don’t you fucking hold back. Pound me. Make me feel you in my throat.”
Yamato saw red at the edges of his vision. He drove into Taichi with savage, jarring force, each thrust aimed deep, fucking into that incredible heat with a desperation that felt like drowning. He wanted to brand him. He wanted to leave his mark so deep inside that the growing life would feel it. Taichi’s moans turned into a continuous stream of filthy encouragement, of curses and pleas.
“Right there, you fucking human—right there! Your cock is so deep—breed me, fill me up—!”
Taichi’s body was tightening, his inner walls beginning to flutter wildly. His hand flew to his own belly, pressing Yamato’s hand there too, so they both felt the firm curve as Yamato rutted into him. “I’m going to come,” Taichi whimpered, the pride gone, replaced by pure, unraveling need. “Yamato—”
Hearing his name like that, a broken plea, undid him. Yamato’s rhythm fractured. He seized, his thrusts becoming short, frantic jerks. “Come with me,” he grunted, the words ripped from him.
He slammed home one final, devastating time, hips grinding deep as he erupted. His orgasm tore through him, a white-hot flood, and he spilled into Taichi with a choked shout, pumping his seed deep into that clutching, welcoming heat.
As if his release was the trigger, Taichi clenched around him impossibly tight, his whole body bowing. A raw scream was torn from his throat, and Yamato felt the hot pulse of the merman’s own release, different from a human’s, a series of rhythmic, milking contractions that sucked every last drop from him.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating, breathless heap. Yamato, spent, slipped out of him, and a trickle of warm fluid followed. He didn’t pull away. He just slumped forward, his head coming to rest on Taichi’s chest, his hand still splayed over that firm, rounded belly.
It pressed warm against his own skin, a palpable, living truth.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing slowing, syncing with the pulse of the water. The jellyfish light pulsed gently over them, blue washing over Taichi’s spent form, over the new swell of his abdomen.
Taichi’s hand came up, clumsy, and carded through Yamato’s sun-bleached hair. His claws were gentle now. “See?” he murmured, his voice hoarse and thick with satisfaction. “Told you I needed more.”
Yamato couldn’t speak. He turned his head and pressed his lips to the warm scales under his cheek. He tasted salt and skin and them. He didn’t know what happened next. He didn’t know how any of this would end. But for this moment, with Taichi’s belly warm against him and the grotto holding them in its ancient, silent palm, he was exactly where he was meant to be.