Chapter 39
T he rival charged up the beach like a storm given flesh.
Sand flew behind his powerful tail. His silver jaw markings flared with rage, claws extended, mouth open in a silent roar. He had survived the current and the explosion, and now he saw his prize — Greta, naked and softly human, sitting in the sand just behind Klari.
Klari rose to meet him, still bleeding, still exhausted, but ready to die before he let the male touch her.
The rival was faster than expected.
But he didn’t know what Klari had spent the last few quiet minutes while building the shelter doing: he had found a long, straight piece of bamboo-like plant near the treeline and sharpened one end against a rock. It wasn’t elegant. It was a gamble.
As the rival closed the final few yards, Klari slammed the blunt end firmly in the sand at an angle, gripped the middle with both hands, and braced.
The rival never slowed.
His momentum was too great, his rage too blind .
The sharpened pole punched straight through his lower abdomen with a wet, sickening thunk.
The rival’s eyes widened in shock. His roar cut off into a strangled gurgle. He staggered forward another step, claws reaching uselessly for Klari, then toppled backward.
The pole snapped as he fell, leaving a jagged shard buried deep in his body. Dark blood poured onto the black sand.
The rival convulsed once, twice, silver markings flickering wildly.
Then he went still.
A moment later his body shimmered, scales losing substance, and faded away completely — reclaimed by the platform like all the others.
Silence fell over the beach, broken only by the soft hush of waves.
Greta stared at the empty space where the rival had been, heart still hammering. Then she looked up at Klari, who was still standing there, chest heaving, blood streaking his indigo scales, the broken remnant of the bamboo pole still clutched in one hand.
She swallowed.
“You… made a spear?”
Klari dropped the shattered piece into the sand. His voice was low, rough, but steady.
“What can I say? I believe in protection.”
Greta laughed — a soft, breathless sound that broke into something raw and relieved. She pushed herself up from the sand and walked straight to him.
“Not with me, I hope,” she said.
She reached for his still-throbbing cock and gently stroked it. “Now, where were we?”
Her hands slid up his chest, careful over the worst of the gashes, then cupped his face. She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t urgent like in the wreck.
It wasn’t desperate like in the cave.
It was unhurried and deep with meaning.
Their mouths moved together slowly, tongues sliding, tasting, remembering.
Klari’s hands settled on her waist, thumbs stroking the soft human skin at her hips with infinite tenderness. He was still rock hard, his cock heavy and ridged, but he didn’t rush. He let her lead.
Greta broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his lips, “I want you. All of you. Right here. No timer. No game. Just us.”
Klari’s golden eyes darkened with heat and the kind of love that had survived monsters, currents, and death itself.
“Then take me,” he whispered.
She guided him down onto the soft bed of dried seaweed he had made under the shelter. He lay back, letting her straddle him.
The moonlight filtered through the broad leaves above them, painting shifting silver patterns across their bodies.
Greta took her time.
She kissed him again — slow, deep, thorough — while her hands explored every inch of him she could reach.
She traced the permanent silver markings on his chest with reverent fingers, kissed the worst of his wounds with aching gentleness, licked the blood from his skin until he groaned and his hips bucked up against her in helpless need.
When she finally reached between them, she wrapped her fingers around his thick length and stroked him slowly from base to tip. He was leaking steadily, ridges pulsing under her touch, hot and alive.
“So beautiful,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss the head, tongue swirling around the sensitive tip with slow devotion. “All of this… for me.”
Klari’s hand slid into her hair, not guiding, just holding. His voice was wrecked with emotion. “Always for you. Only for you.”
She took him into her mouth — slow, wet, deliberate — sucking gently while her tongue worked the underside with tender care.
Klari’s head fell back against the seaweed, a low, guttural groan escaping him. His tail twitched and curled around her calf, holding her close.
Greta didn’t rush.
She worshipped him with her mouth until his hips started to twitch with restraint, then she pulled off with a wet pop and crawled up his body.
She positioned herself over him, took his cock in her hand again, and slowly — so slowly — sank down.
They both moaned as he filled her.
Inch by thick, ridged inch.
No timer. No desperation. Just the pure, deliberate slide of him stretching her open, filling her completely until she sat flush against his hips, joined as deeply as two bodies could be.
Greta stayed there for a long moment, eyes closed, savoring the feeling of him deep inside her with nothing between them but skin and want and love.
Then she began to move.
Slow rolls of her hips. Deep grinds. Taking him as deep as she could on every downward stroke.
Her hands braced on his chest, fingers splayed over his silver markings as they pulsed warm and steady beneath her palms, as if his very biology was answering her.
Klari’s hands rested on her thighs, thumbs stroking her soft human skin with infinite tenderness, letting her set the pace.
His golden eyes never left her face — watching every flutter of pleasure, every soft gasp, every time her lips parted on a moan — like she was the most precious thing in any universe.
“You feel like home,” she whispered, riding him deeper, slower, letting every ridge drag perfectly inside her.
“You are home,” he answered, voice rough with emotion and awe. “You have always been home.”
The rhythm built gradually. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just deep and devastatingly intimate.
Their bodies moved together like they had all the time in the world — because, for the first time, they did.
Greta leaned down and kissed him again, tongues sliding lazily as she continued to ride him.
His hands slid up her back, holding her close, cherishing her.
When she finally came, it was slow and powerful — a deep, rolling wave that started low in her belly and spread outward until her whole body trembled with sweetness.
She clenched around him rhythmically, moaning softly into his mouth as pleasure washed through her like sunlight.
Klari followed her over with a low, guttural groan of pure devotion, hips bucking up once, twice, then holding deep as he spilled inside her — hot, thick pulses that filled her completely, marking her as his in the gentlest, most profound way.
They stayed joined afterward, breathing together, foreheads pressed, bodies slick with sweat and the last traces of saltwater.
The third claim was complete.
No timer. No rush. No game.
Just them.
Klari wrapped his arms around her and held her close, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, then another to her cheek, then another to her lips — each one a quiet vow.
“It’s over,” he whispered against her mouth.
Greta smiled against his skin, eyes drifting shut in exhausted, perfect peace.
“Yes,” she murmured. “It’s finally over.”