Jules: Shit . . . well . . . good morning.
Mack: Good morning.
Jules: Do you want some coffee?
***
As soon as Mack opens the door, we’re kissing. My hands wrap around his neck, and his arms pull me in, pressing my soft form into his hard one. His body is so different in the air as opposed to in the water. The whole experience is different.
The kiss is surprisingly fierce, but it’s like we’re locked in it in his entryway. His hands travel upward, cupping my jaw; his lips are soft, and his tongue searches for mine.
My hands . . . They’re traveling everywhere. He doesn’t have a shirt on, only the light blue swim trunks I’ve seen him in before. My eyes flutter open, and I catch a glimpse of my hand on his chest, my pale skin against his even more opalescent, shimmery scales . . . now looking more greenish blue than before.
I caress the tight, scaly skin across his chest. His entire chest is tightly contoured, as if I’m looking at a human skeleton stretched with muscles and covered in scales and fins. He pulls away when my hand reaches his neck, touching the slit-like openings at the side.
Gills.
“Sorry,” I murmur against his lips.
I push up on the tips of my toes to press my mouth against his, but he breaks away, pulling back.
He rests his hands on my shoulders, his fingers gently rubbing in place, as if moving of their own accord. Nevertheless, he keeps me at arm’s length.
“It’s just too weird. Isn’t it?” He leans forward and whispers the words against my hairline. “You . . . and . . . me . . .”
Spiky waves rush down my neck at the touch.
I bring my hand to his neck again, gently this time, my fingertips hovering over the delicate gills. “It’s unknown. That’s all. But the unknown doesn’t have to remain that way. Will you let me?”
His nostrils flare. And then he swings his gaze downward, and I notice the clean half-moon line of his eyelids. No eyelashes.
I want to run a fingertip along that line as well.
Then he nods. “Yes . . . go ahead.”
With his consent, very carefully, I glide my index finger along the line of his gill, following it as if it were a vein or a strand of hair. It quivers at my touch, the little slits fluttering as I run my fingertip along them.
“Does that hurt?”
The veins on his neck bulge. The muscle at the corner of his jaw flicks. “No. It doesn’t hurt. You can’t hurt me.”
Emboldened, I trail my fingertips upward then, to his ear, then along his jaw. His cheekbones are high and prominent, more like the sharp corners of a shark than any other aquatic animal.
For the first time, it dawns on me that he’s not just unlike other humans. In many ways, he’s much more powerful. He can breathe both in and out of the water. He can heave himself up and over the tank without trying, even holding onto my body as well.
And for the first time, it dawns on me that he’s not really a fish at all. He’s not a human either. But he is a predator.
And yet, I’m not scared.
Instead, if my nipples and pussy are any indication, I’m excited.
My fingers trail along his lips, then over the high peak of his cheekbones, and then, just like that, we’re kissing again.
He nudges me with a step, and I comply, one foot scraping backward and then the next, until we reach the couch, where he pushes me with enough force that I fall to the cushions, my back pushed against the armrest, my legs spread open, and my breath heavy with desire.
I cannot believe what I’m fucking doing.
This desire is new to me. Sure, I’ve masturbated before, but my body has never responded this way to any man.
Except he’s not a man, Jules.
He follows me to the couch, positioning himself between my legs, hovering, slanted across the cushions. He’s draped over me, and with an even closer view of his chest, I can vaguely see the outline of a beating dark purple heart.
Before my brain can make sense of that revelation, his lips are on mine again, and I’m melting into nothing but a puddle of clouds.
As he deepens the kiss, my hips rock impulsively and uncontrollably. I’m straining to press my pelvis against his . . . but he’s out of reach.
I let my hands travel down the length of his back to grasp at his taut, muscled hips, but he growls softly into my mouth. Then, one by one, he pulls my hands off him and holds them over my head.
“Stay put,” he commands.
And as my body responds to the directive, I’m dying for more contact. His chest doesn’t even touch mine; a wave of air could blow right between us. Our only points of contact are our lips and his hands on my wrist.
I wiggle in his grip. “Let me go,” I say.
And instantly, he releases me.
Instead of standing, though, I push against his chest with my hands, pressing his back into the back of the couch, his legs spread, and then I move to him, one leg straddling either side.
