Page 89 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"You recognized something in me beyond designation or experimental value," I whisper, head falling back against his shoulder as his hands continue their gentle exploration. "And I recognized something in you that defied institutional categorization or clinical assessment."

"I did," he confirms, voice carrying a rougher cadence that betrays growing arousal despite careful control. "Even then—even with you so young and circumstances so controlled, I knew you were different. Special. Mine in ways that transcended institutional assignment or biological compatibility."

The admission sends fresh heat pooling between my legs—slick gathering with embarrassing speed despite the absence of direct stimulation or explicit intent.

My body responds to his words with intensity that defies logical explanation or tactical rationalization—omega biology recognizing its alpha beyond conscious thought or strategic consideration.

I turn within his embrace, facing him directly as water continues streaming over both our bodies in glistening rivulets. The movement brings us chest to chest, his considerable height advantage creating perfect alignment of bodies designed for complementary function beyond mere physical coupling or designation dynamics.

"How long are you going to wait?" The question emerges breathless yet direct, characteristic precision wrapped in genuine desire rather than calculated provocation.

His brow furrows slightly, confusion momentarily replacing arousal despite our intimate positioning and mutual state of undress.

"What do you mean?"

My hands rise to frame his face, fingers tracing features I've carried in memory through six years of separation with reverent thoroughness.

The contact creates a connection beyond simple physical touch—tactile confirmation of presence after extended absence, reality asserting itself against preserved recollection with beautiful finality.

"How long until you claim me already?" The whispered question carries no hesitation despite its boldness—just genuine desire and unmistakable intent.

Something shifts in his expression—micro-reactions that speak of internal conflict between alpha instinct and careful restraint, between possessive need and conscious consideration.

His hands tighten fractionally at my waist, the slight pressure communicating desire without imposing intent or assuming consent beyond what's been explicitly offered.

"Is that what you really want?" The question emerges quietly yet intensely, carrying the weight of genuine inquiry rather than rhetorical challenge or performative hesitation.

No doubt about my desire, but genuine concern regarding potential regret or future reconsideration—respect for agency beyond biological imperative or designation dynamics.

Our eyes lock as steam continues rising around us, creating a dreamlike quality to this momentary sanctuary carved from institutional horror through nothing more than heated water and transparent barriers.

In this shared space, stripped of tactical facades and operational necessities, truth flows with surprising ease between bodies designed for complementary function beyond mere physical coupling or institutional categorization.

His hands lift me effortlessly, pressing my back against the cool shower tiles as water continues cascading around us in heated rivulets.

The contrast between cold ceramic and his burning skin makes me gasp, every nerve ending alive with sensation that transcends mere physical contact.

"Six years," he breathes against my throat, his voice raw with emotion that cuts deeper than any blade. "Six fucking years I've dreamed of this moment."

His mouth finds mine again with desperate hunger that speaks of starvation beyond physical need.

This kiss carries the weight of time stolen, of connections severed, of hope preserved through systematic torture designed to break exactly what we're rebuilding in this steamed sanctuary.

I taste the desperation on his tongue, feel it in the way his hands grip my thighs with trembling intensity. Not from weakness but from the overwhelming reality that fantasy has finally materialized into flesh and blood and willing surrender.

"I thought about you every day," I whisper between kisses, my own voice thick with tears I didn't realize were falling. "In that other life, wearing someone else's name, I carried you with me like a secret treasure no one could steal."

A growl rumbles through his chest at my words, primal satisfaction mixing with protective rage at what institutional separation cost us both.

His hips press forward, the hard length of him sliding against my slick folds with delicious friction that makes coherent thought scatter like leaves in hurricane winds.

"Tell me again," he demands, mouth moving to my ear where his breath creates shivers that race down my spine. "Tell me this is what you want."

"This is what I want," I breathe without hesitation, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. "You. Here. Now. All of it."

The confession seems to snap whatever restraint he's been maintaining.

His mouth crashes against mine with renewed intensity while one hand slides between our bodies, fingers finding my center with unerring accuracy born from alpha instinct rather than experience.

---