I lifted her with two thick tentacles around her waist, laying her down so I could truly see her. And gods, the sight of her destroyed me. She was lush, generous, beautifully plus-size — full breasts heavy and soft, a generous stomach with its perfect curve, wide hips and thick thighs that trembled slightly as I spread them. Every inch of her was soft, warm, and overflowing in my hands and tentacles. She was abundance given form. She was everything I had denied myself.
I wanted to devour her slowly. I wanted to drown in her.
I wrapped her completely against the rocks.
Two tentacles cradled her waist and hips, taking her full, delicious weight with ease and lifting her slightly so I could worship her. Another two spread her plush thighs wide,exposing her glistening cunt. I groaned at the sight — how soft and wet she already was for me. My hands and mouth moved over her heavy breasts, sucking and biting gently at her nipples while tentacles stroked the generous curve of her belly and the softness of her sides.
"Marisol…" I rasped against her skin. "You have no idea how long I have needed this. I need you."
She arched into every touch, offering herself so freely it made my cock throb painfully.
"More," she breathed.
I gave her everything.
One thick, slippery tentacle slid along her soaked folds before pushing deep inside her cunt, stretching her. A second joined it, filling her together while she moaned. Another pressed against her ass, warm and slick, working its way in until she was stuffed full. Then I replaced one tentacle with my cock — heavy, ridged, and aching — thrusting deep into her tight, welcoming heat in one long stroke.
She cried out, back bowing, her soft body jiggling beautifully with the force of it. The sight of my dark, veined cock disappearing into her plush cunt while my tentacles filled her ass and stroked her clit nearly undid me.
I fucked her with centuries of pent-up hunger, tentacles moving everywhere at once — squeezing her full breasts, stroking her soft stomach, wrapping her thick thighs and holding her open while I drove into her again and again. Ink bloomed across her skin in dark, claiming patterns over her breasts, belly, hips, and thighs. She looked like she belonged to the deep. She looked like she belonged to me.
"All of you," she gasped, hands fisting in my hair, pulling me closer. "Maro — I want all of you."
I snarled and gave her exactly that.
I filled her cunt with my cock and one thick tentacle, her ass with another, while more stroked and squeezed every soft, generous curve of her body. The wet, filthy sounds of me fucking her mixed with the roar of the storm outside. She was so warm, so soft, so perfectly full in my grip.
When she came the first time, it crashed through every point of contact at once — her walls clamping down around my cock and tentacles, her whole lush body shaking and crying out. I kept fucking her through it, drawing it out until she was sobbing with pleasure.
I flooded her again and again, pumping thick, hot loads of cum deep inside her while my tentacles held her open for every drop. When I finally came with her, it was with a deep, rumbling sound torn from the oldest part of me. I emptied everything I had into her soft, curvy body while she held me close and whispered against my throat.
The storm raged on, but nothing outside mattered.
She had taken all of me.
And I was finally, completely, home.
***
By dawn, the storm had faded.
She was asleep.
I was not.
I lay with her wrapped in my tentacles; all eight, loose and warm, a cocoon she had made no objection to and I watched the storm through the crack in the shutters and I watched her breathe and I looked at the ink on her shoulder.
It had not faded.
In the cave it had faded within hours. The night before it had been mostly gone by morning. This — I pressed the tip of onetentacle to it, very lightly, and the ink held. Dark and permanent and exactly the color of deep water.
I knew what this meant. I had always known what this meant. I had been ignoring it on purpose, because I knew she had a life to go back to.
I held the knowledge very carefully.
She made a small sound in her sleep and turned toward me and her hand found my arm and held it, even asleep, and the mate pull in my chest was no longer a pull. It was simply present. It was simply true.
I thought about the sailor, two hundred years ago. I thought about the season, the warmth of it, the specific grief of watching him leave on a boat I could have stopped and chose not to stop because I did not stop things, I did not ask for things, I did not expect permanence.
