The water temperature drops.
Not gradually. Instantly. Like something massive and cold-blooded just slid into the pool behind me. I don't turn. Don't give him the satisfaction. But my pussy clenches hard, gushing fresh wetness into already soaked water.
“Angry female waited.” His voice comes from maybe six feet away. Calm. Amused.
“Said I would.”
“Most don't. Most run. Try to escape what their body demands.”
“I'm not most.”
“No.” The water moves. Slow displacement that tells me he's spreading out, coils unfurling in the pool. Not approaching. Just... occupying space. “You stayed angry. Stayed thinking. Stayed choosing despite seven days of torment.”
I finally turn.
He's magnificent and terrifying in daylight. The shed has progressed further—old scales hang like tattered banners while new ones gleam underneath, so fresh they look wet. His hood is relaxed, neutral. But those eyes. Vertical pupils that track my every movement, miss nothing.
And lower...
Both hemipenes are partially emerged from their ventral slit. Not fully extended but visible, already dripping that clear pre-cum that makes the water around him shimmer with pheromones. The sight makes my pussy spasm desperately.
His coils spread through the pool in loose loops, thirty-three feet of muscle and intent. Not surrounding me. Not yet. Just there. Available. Waiting.
“Why aren't you running?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Away from me. From this. You could still reach shore. Could try.” His head tilts, genuinely curious. “Why aren't you running?”
I float there, considering. Seven days of hell. Seven days of my body screaming for something only he can provide. Seven days of fighting and losing against biology. My skin is flushed pink despite my dark complexion, blood running hot with need.
“Maybe I'm tired of running.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite surprise. Recognition maybe.
“Or maybe,” I add, because vulnerability makes me vicious, “I want to see if you're all talk.”
His laugh rumbles through the water, and I feel it in my bones, in my clit, in the emptiness that defines me now. “Female thinks this is talk?”
A coil brushes my leg. Just the barest touch but my whole body lights up. Not rough scales like I expected. Smooth. Cool. Like polished stone that moves. The temperature difference—his cold blood against my fever-hot skin—makes me gasp.
“That's it?” I try for dismissive but my voice cracks. “One little touch and?—”
Another coil slides around my waist. Not squeezing. Just... there. The weight of it. The undeniable presence. I can feel each individual scale against my hypersensitive skin, feel the power in the muscle beneath.
“Tell me to stop,” he says simply. “One word and I leave. You go back to fingers that don't satisfy. Back to empty ache that gets worse each day.”
My mouth opens. The word is right there. Stop. Easy. Simple.
I don't say it.
The coil around my waist tightens slightly. Not painful. Just firm. Claiming space. His body temperature is cooler than the water, making me hyperaware of every point of contact. Wherehe touches me, my skin prickles with goosebumps despite the heat.
“Why me?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “You said I'm different. How?”
His head moves closer, that long neck bringing his face level with mine. His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the water between us. The water that's thick with my arousal, with seven days of desperate need.
“Your anger tastes like copper,” he says. “Most females taste like fear. Like desperation. Like surrender. You taste like war.”
