Chapter 11
Marisol
The afternoon light was golden, warm, and completely unforgiving in the best way.
We left early from the fish fry by silent agreement.
The distant sound of music and laughter drifted through the trees, but there was only the open doors to the ocean, the soft roar of waves, and the two of us choosing each other again.
The choosing was the most beautiful thing we had ever done.
He undressed me slowly, reverently, like every inch of my skin deserved its own moment of worship.
His hands slid over my full hips, my soft stomach, the heavy curves of my breasts.
His tentacles uncurled from his lower back, thick and dark in the sunlight, filling the room with warm, living presence.
Ink bloomed across his chest and shoulders, vivid blue-black in the clear light.
"I can see it," I whispered, tracing the shifting patterns with my fingertips. "All of you."
"Yes," he said, voice low and rough.
"It's beautiful."
He looked at me with that bare, unprotected expression. "So are you, Marisol. Every soft, perfect curve." His hands squeezed my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples. "The way you feel in my hands… the way you look in the light… I will never get enough of you."
I reached for him and he came to me.
He spread me open on the bed in the sunlight and took his time.
His mouth worshipped my breasts, sucking and licking until I was whimpering.
Two thick tentacles curled around my plush thighs, spreading me so wide I felt the stretch in my hips.
Another tentacle stroked slowly over my soaked pussy before pushing inside me.
A second one joined the first, stretching me open with that delicious, overwhelming fullness.
"Tell me," he murmured against my throat.
"Deeper," I breathed. "I want all of you inside my pussy."
He gave me everything.
His heavy, ridged cock replaced the tentacles in my pussy, the broad head pressing against my entrance before sinking into me in one long, slow thrust. The size difference always undid me — he was so much bigger, so much thicker than any human could ever be.
I felt every inch of that delicious stretch as my pussy opened around him, walls fluttering and gripping tight.
At the same time, a thick, slippery tentacle pressed into my ass, filling me completely until I was impossibly full in both holes.
Another tentacle stroked my clit in perfect rhythm while two more wrapped around my breasts, squeezing and teasing my nipples. He was everywhere. Loving me. Claiming me. Fucking me with deep, rolling strokes that made my soft, curvy body move and jiggle beneath his much larger frame.
The afternoon light let me see the way my full breasts bounced with every thrust, the way my stomach jiggled, the dark ink blooming across my skin in real time, spreading over my chest, my belly, my thick thighs.
I watched it claim me while he claimed me, and the sight was so intimate it made my heart ache with love.
"You feel like heaven," he groaned, voice wrecked as he drove deeper. "So warm… so tight… your pussy stretches so beautifully around me. I love the way you take every inch."
I told him exactly what I wanted, again and again, and every word made his control slip. He fucked me harder, tentacles pulsing inside me, cock dragging against every sensitive spot until I was shaking.
When I came apart I cried his name, loud, raw, and full of love, clenching hard around his cock and tentacles as pleasure crashed through me.
He followed me with a deep, rumbling groan, burying himself to the hilt and flooding me with thick, hot pulses of cum.
I felt every spurt, every throb, my body overflowing with him as the ink on both of us spread darker, binding us tighter in the golden light.
We stayed tangled together, his tentacles wrapped loosely and lovingly around my curves, one still gently stroking my hip. His hand rested possessively on my soft stomach, thumb tracing slow circles through the ink. Sunlight warmed our skin. The ocean breathed outside the open door.
I looked up at him and smiled, heart so full it almost hurt. "I'm still here," I whispered.
"Always," he answered softly, and kissed me like I was the most precious thing in his world.
The ocean through the open door. His tentacles were loose and warm around me, the ink visible on both of us drying dark in the late light. I pressed my fingers to the mark on my shoulder and it held, settled and permanent and mine.
"The words," he said. "I think I know them now."
I waited.
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You are the first person in two hundred years who looked at everything I am and moved toward it.
Not in spite of it. Because of it." He said it looking at the ceiling, which was where he looked when he was saying things he had been carrying.
"I have been — very careful, for a long time, about not wanting things I could not keep. And then you got on the wrong ferry."
I was quiet for a moment. "Thank you for sharing those words with me."
"That is the best available version."
I pressed my face to his chest, to the ink there, to the warmth of him. "Maro," I said.
"But I still like your version: I love you," Maro added.
"I love you, too."
The sun went low.
Tina called us in for dinner — ?a comer! from the lodge door, the universal signal that the evening was ready and we were expected — and down the road in La Boca the fish fry was still going, music through the trees, the low warm sound of the village at the end of a week.
We went in.
The fish market guys were there with rum.
The kids had found a second wind from somewhere and were making their case loudly for staying up later.
Tino from the bar was arguing pleasantly with Maro about whether the current off the south point had shifted, which it had, and Maro was correct, and Tino knew Maro was correct, and the argument would continue regardless because it had been continuing for years and neither of them intended to stop.
I sat on the dock wall with my drink and I watched all of it and I thought: this is the thing. The whole of it. The rum and the music and the kids and Tina through the window, not watching, watching. The community that had known for a month and had simply been waiting for us to catch up.
Maro finished the current argument — not resolving it, pausing it, the way you'd pause something you intended to come back to in another decade, before he came to sit beside me. His arm around my shoulders. My head on his shoulder, the ink visible where my collar fell.
The music from La Boca came through the trees.
The ocean was dark and close. The ink on my shoulder was warm in the evening air.
I was sitting on a dock on the wrong island with the right person, and I was fine.
I was more than fine. I was, for the first time in a very long time, precisely and completely where I was supposed to be.
I had found the place that felt like home, and his name was Maro.
***
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