The wooden raft creaks under our combined weight as I pin Stiles to the weathered boards. The saltwater drips from my hair onto his face, and he laughs, squirming beneath me. "Ewwww, wet dog," he complains, but there's no heat in it—his hands already sliding into my hair to pull me closer.

"That wasn't funny," I growl, but I can't help the smile tugging at my lips. The sound of his laughter, the feel of his body beneath mine—two years together and I still feel like I'm starving for it after being apart.

"You're getting kind of stealthy. I'd usually have heard you miles out," I say, running my nose along his jaw, breathing him in now that the saltwater barrier is fading.

"Good to know I can still get the drop on you, wolf-man," he grins, arching his hips against mine. The familiar hardness pressing against me sends a jolt of need straight to my core.

"That's the first thing you said to me when I saw you again at the house, two years ago," I murmur against his neck, nipping gently at the skin there. He shivers.

"I remember," he hums, stretching lazily in my grip. He could easily break free—he's stronger than he looks—but he doesn't. He never does. Letting me pretend I'm the one in control here.

My werewolf senses finally pick up his true scent beneath the ocean spray—warm, familiar, uniquely Stiles. It makes my chest ache with how much I missed it. How much I missed him.

I hold him tighter as I run my teeth lightly over his jugular, rewarded with a soft moan. His hands fist in my hair, guiding me closer. "Hey," he says suddenly, voice serious despite the desire in his eyes, "do you seriously want to have a baby with me?"