The beach was empty because it was Elena's beach, at least for the summer. A strip of private sand beyond the dunes, rented with three months of saved tips. She was twenty-seven years old and she had been swimming here every morning since June, and this morning the Gulf was flat and silver under a white sky.

She waded out until the waves licked at her thighs and dove clean through the next one, and laughed out loud because nobody was there to hear her. She swam out past the break and rolled onto her back, the water rocking her gently, so free that sometimes she forgot to be careful.

That was when she saw him.

He was standing at the waterline on her beach, hands in his swim shorts pockets, dark hair damp like he'd already been in once, watching her. Not pretending not to. Just watching her, steady and open, like he'd been waiting for her to come up.

Elena's heart kicked against her ribs.

— You're trespassing, — she called.

— I know.

He was thirty-three, tall, broad through the shoulders, salt drying white on his chest.

— I've been watching you swim for three mornings, Elena. I own the house past the north dune. And this morning I couldn't stay up there anymore.

Her name in his mouth stopped her breath.

— You don't know my name.

— I asked the rental agent. He said the woman in the blue cottage swims every morning and never brings anyone. He said she's a siren. He was right.

He took a step into the surf.

— I'm Damion.

— Papacito, — she whispered before she could stop herself, testing the word, and his eyes darkened.

— You come out of the water,

he said, low and certain,

— or I come in after you. Your choice. But we're talking today, mamacita.

She waded toward him because her body had already decided. Her swimsuit was a dark green one-piece, high-cut, and she was suddenly, sharply aware of every inch of it.

— You've been watching me, — she said.

— Why?

— Because I wanted you the first time I saw you walk into the water, — he said simply.

— And because I'm a man who takes what he wants. I'm asking you once, nicely. After this morning, I'm not asking anymore.

Her whole body was humming. The part of her that had spent twenty-seven years being careful was very, very tired of being careful.

— What do you want, Damion?

He put his hand on the side of her neck, thumb along her jaw, holding her gentle and absolute.

— You. All of you. Every part of you. I've heard the stories, mamacita.

Her stomach dropped.

— Stories?

— The rental agent talks. He says you're a woman born with both. Female and male, all in one.

His thumb stroked her cheek.

— It doesn't scare me, it doesn't confuse me, and it's not going to stop me. I want all of you, and I want you to hear that before we go one step further.

Tears stung her eyes.

— Nobody's ever said it like that.

— Then nobody was man enough for you. I am. Come up on the sand with me. Now.

She went. He kept his hand at the back of her neck the whole way, guiding her, and when they reached the dry sand he turned her to face him.

— Here's how this is going to go, — he said, his voice dropping darker.

— You're going to let me undress you. You're going to let me see all of you in the sunlight, and you're not going to hide a single thing. Then I'm going to worship you like you were made for my mouth and my hands, and then I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight. And you're going to give me everything, because you're mine now. Do you understand?

— Yes, — she breathed.

— Yes, what?

— Yes, papacito, — she whispered, and his eyes flared.

— Good girl.

He kissed her — not an asking kiss. His mouth took hers open, his tongue claiming it, deep and slow, his big hands sliding down her wet back, gripping her ass through the suit, pulling her hard against him. She felt him through his shorts — thick, hard, enormous — and moaned into his mouth, her knees going soft. He held her up effortlessly, one arm around her waist, the other tangled in her wet hair.

He broke the kiss and she gasped. His hands found the zipper of her one-piece and drew it slowly down her back. He peeled the wet suit off her shoulders, down her arms, down her body — baring her breasts to the sunlight, her nipples tightening in the sea air — down over her hips, her thighs, until she stood naked on the sand in the morning sun.

He looked. Long and slow and unashamed. Her full breasts, her soft belly, her wide hips. Her pussy, pink and swollen, glistening wet. And above it, her cock — small, feminine, delicate — rising half-hard in the sunlight, the head flushed and weeping.

— Both worlds, — he breathed, awe and hunger thick in his voice.

— My siren has both worlds.

He sank to his knees in the sand in front of her.

— Don't you dare cover yourself. Let your papacito look at what's his.

She stood trembling, her hands at her sides, while his eyes devoured her. Then his hands gripped her thighs, spreading them, and his mouth found her pussy.

Elena screamed. His tongue was hot and relentless — licking her in broad strokes, lapping up her wetness mixed with seawater, then pushing inside her, fucking her with his tongue. She bucked, her fingers tangling in his damp hair, sand shifting under her feet. He held her hips firmly, pinning her, and ate her like he was starving — his tongue spearing into her dripping pussy, then circling her clit with fast, flicking strokes.

— Papacito—

she sobbed, and he groaned against her clit, the vibration tearing through her.

Then his mouth moved up to her little cock — and he took the whole small shaft between his lips, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the flushed head. She howled — the sunlight, the sand, his mouth worshipping her. He sucked her little cock with slow, devoted pulls while two thick fingers slid into her pussy, curling against her front wall.

— Come for me, — he growled against her shaft.

— Come on the beach for your papacito.

She shattered — wailing at the sky, her pussy clenching around his fingers, her spend spurting across the sand — and he kept sucking her through it, his fingers stroking her inner walls, drinking down every spasm.

— Every drop is mine, — he breathed, licking her clean.

— Now —

He stood, pushed his swim shorts down, and freed his cock.

Elena's breath caught. He was massive — thick as her wrist, long and heavy, the head flushed dark purple and leaking pre-come. He fisted it slowly, his eyes burning into hers.

— On your knees, mamacita.

She knelt in the warm sand and took his massive cockhead between her lips. He was huge — her lips stretched wide around his girth, salt and musk flooding her tongue. She sucked him deep, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue working the thick vein underneath. He groaned, his hand fisting in her wet hair.

— That's my good girl. Take your papacito's cock. Suck it like you mean it.

He pushed deeper, his thick shaft filling her mouth, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged sweetly, drooled, spit running down her chin into the sand — and he held her head and fucked her mouth in slow, deep strokes. She moaned around him, her tongue swirling around his throbbing head, her hand stroking what she couldn't fit.

He pulled out with a wet pop.

— Up. I want you under me, on the sand, with the sun on your face.

He laid her back on the warm sand, spreading a beach towel under her hips, and settled between her thighs. He dragged his weeping cockhead through her soaked folds, coating himself, his eyes locked on hers.

— Who does this pussy belong to?

— You, papacito, — she breathed.

— It's yours.

— And this?

He wrapped his hand around her little cock, stroking it slowly.

— Yours too! Both of me — all yours, papacito!

— Good girl.

He positioned his thick throbbing cockhead at her entrance.

— Breathe, mamacita. The sand's going to hear you scream.

He pushed in. The massive head breached her and Elena screamed at the sky — he was so big, so impossibly thick, and her pussy stretched and stretched around his huge girth, her outer lips pulled taut and glistening as his thick throbbing head forced its way inside her. Her inner walls clung and fluttered around every inch, the stretch burning sweet, sand shifting beneath her.

— Take it, — Damion groaned, his eyes locked on where they joined.

— Take your papacito's cock. Your tight little pussy was made for me.

He bottomed out, his hips pressing into her, his heavy balls resting on the sand beneath her. She was stuffed impossibly full, stretched around his thick girthy massive cock. The sun beat down on her breasts, her hard nipples, her flushed face — and he started moving. Slow, deep, powerful strokes — pulling almost all the way out, then driving back in to the hilt, grinding his hips against her clit with every thrust.

— Fuck — so tight, — he groaned.

— Your little pussy is strangling my cock, mamacita.

Her pussy was soaked, squelching obscenely around his thick shaft, her juices mixing with sand and seawater. He reached down and stroked her little cock in time with his thrusts — and she howled, arching off the towel, her cries carrying over the empty beach.

— Come for me, — he commanded.

— Come on my cock where the whole ocean can hear you.

She shattered — screaming at the sky, her pussy clamping down on his massive shaft, her spend spurting across her belly — and he groaned and kept pounding her through it, his thick cock throbbing inside her.

— Again, — he growled.

— Give me another one. Now.

She obeyed, sobbing — and he pulled out, flipped her onto her hands and knees in the sand, and drove back into her from behind in one savage stroke. She screamed into the towel, sand under her palms. He gripped her hips and pounded her, his hand fisted in her wet hair, the waves crashing behind them. His other hand reached under her swinging body and stroked her little cock, which hung heavy, leaking onto the sand.

— Who's your papacito?

he roared over the surf.

— You are! You're my papacito!

— And who owns every inch of you?

— You do! Both worlds — all of me — yours!

He fucked her harder, his balls slapping her clit, sand flying. She came again, her spend shooting into the sand — and he groaned deep and erupted inside her, his massive cock pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her, overflowing around his shaft onto the sand. She felt every pulse, every throb, every drop.

He stayed buried in her, his chest against her sandy back, his lips at her ear.

— Mine,

he panted.

— My siren. My mamacita. My whole, perfect girl.

She lay beneath him in the sand, full of him, claimed by him.

— Yours, papacito. Forever yours.

He carried her into the surf — her legs wrapped around his waist, his massive cock still buried deep inside her — and the cool water closed around them. He stood waist-deep in the silver Gulf, holding her effortlessly, the waves rocking them gently, and started moving — slow, deep thrusts, the water lapping around where they joined, her breasts bouncing above the surface, seawater beading on her flushed skin.

— Wrap your legs tighter, — he ordered, his voice rough with hunger.

She did, locking her ankles at his back, pulling him deeper, her nails digging into his shoulders. He bounced her on his thick shaft — lifting her slightly, letting her slide back down, her pussy stretching around his massive girth with every descent, the water swirling around them. She clung to his shoulders, moaning, her little cock trapped between their bellies, leaking into the sea.

— Who owns this pussy? — he growled, his forehead pressed to hers, seawater beading on his skin.

— You do, papacito!

— Say it louder. Let the ocean hear who you belong to.

— I belong to you, papacito! — she screamed over the waves.

— My pussy's yours! All of me is yours!

He groaned and drove deeper, his thick cock pulsing inside her — and she came hard, her pussy strangling his shaft, her spend dissolving into the surf — and he followed, roaring, his massive cock erupting deep inside her, jet after jet of hot come filling her pussy, the warmth of it spreading inside her even in the cool water.

They stayed joined in the waves, her arms around his neck, his arms locked around her waist, the sun climbing higher.

— Come up to the house, — he said at last, carrying her out of the water.

— I'm not done with you, mamacita. Not even close.

His house past the north dune was all glass and cedar, and he carried her straight through to the bedroom — a vast bed with white sheets, windows open to the sea. He laid her back and settled between her thighs, his mouth going to her pussy — licking her clean, lapping up the seawater and their mixed wetness, his tongue fucking her gently, thoroughly. She whimpered, her hands tangled in the sheets, her little cock hardening again.

— Papacito—

— Shh, mamacita. Your papacito is worshipping what's his.

His tongue circled her clit — slow, maddening rings — then sucked the bud between his lips, pulsing his tongue against it. She moaned, her back arching. He ate her with deep, devoted hunger — his tongue spearing into her dripping pussy, then returning to her clit — until she was trembling, sobbing, on the edge.

Then his mouth moved to her little cock — and he took it between his lips, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the flushed head, while two fingers slid into her pussy, curling against her front wall. She screamed — the worship, the reverence — and shattered, her spend spurting into his mouth, her pussy clenching around his fingers. He swallowed it down, groaning.

— On top, — he said, rolling onto his back, his massive cock standing straight up, glistening.

— Ride me, mamacita.

Elena straddled his hips and sank down onto his massive shaft — inch by inch, her pussy stretching wide around his huge girth, her walls fluttering around his thick throbbing cock. She threw her head back and moaned, her wet hair falling down her back, her breasts bouncing.

— That's it, — Damion groaned, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her.

— Ride your papacito's cock like a good girl.

She rode him — slow, deep rolls at first, taking him to the hilt with every descent — then faster, harder, bouncing on his massive shaft, her cries growing louder. He reached up and pinched her nipples hard, rolling them between his fingers, and she howled. He sat up, wrapping his arms around her, his mouth latching onto her breast — sucking hard, his tongue swirling — while she rode him, his thick cock spearing her with every bounce.

— Who owns you? — he growled against her breast.

— You do, papacito! All of me!

She came hard — her pussy clamping down on him, her spend smearing between their bellies — and he groaned and flipped her onto her back, driving back into her in one smooth stroke, pounding her into the mattress with deep, brutal thrusts. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, folding her, driving impossibly deep — and she screamed, her hands clawing the sheets.

— Come with me,

he roared.

— Come on my cock!

She shattered — and he erupted inside her, his massive cock pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her to overflowing, his hips grinding hard against hers. She felt every pulse, every throb, every drop.

They spent the day like that — the bed, the shower with the glass door fogging, the kitchen counter with her legs wrapped around his waist, the rug in front of the windows with the sea crashing below. Everywhere he took her, he worshipped her first — his mouth on her pussy, his tongue on her little cock, his hands learning every inch — and then he fucked her until she screamed.

That evening, under the stars on the warm sand, he laid her back and settled between her thighs one last time. The night was soft, the waves gentle, the sky black and blazing above them.

— One more, — he whispered, pushing into her slowly — deep, rolling thrusts, his forehead pressed to hers, the sand warm beneath her back.

— For the stars, mamacita. Let me feel you come under the whole sky.

She wrapped herself around him, holding him deep, her legs locked at his back, her little cock leaking between their bellies.

— I love you, papacito, — she whispered, her voice breaking.

— I love you too, mamacita, — he groaned, his rhythm building.

— My siren. My wife —

He stopped, his eyes widening.

— Marry me, Elena. For real. Be my wife.

— Yes,

she sobbed, shattering around him.

— Yes, papacito, yes—

He came with her — groaning her name into the night, his massive cock pulsing his come deep inside her, filling her under the stars. They lay tangled in the sand, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, the waves keeping time.

And so the summer went — mornings in the silver water, afternoons in the dunes, evenings under the stars — and with every day Damion proved it again: that she was not too much, not complicated, not a rumor or a condition. She was Elena, twenty-seven, a woman born with both, and she was his — desired wholly, worshipped completely, claimed forever. Both worlds. All his. And she had never been happier, never been freer, never been more herself than in his arms on their beach, under the sun and the stars, in the salt and the surf — loved, every single part of her, exactly as she was.