Page 16 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle

Thought About It

I t’s been almost a year, and Cal still makes me feel like I’m going to catch fire just by looking at him. Which I do, often, and with little to no shame.

He’s changed in lots of small ways since that stormy night that almost stole everything.

Not so much that anyone else might notice easily, but I see it.

I feel it. His smiles come quicker. He lingers longer when we’re out in town and chats happily at the coastal research co-op I’ve set up while I finish work.

He even has a few guys he’ll go out for drinks with sometimes.

Some women still look at him like a tidal wave they’d like to drown in, even when I’m stood right there.

I don’t blame them. The man’s obnoxiously good-looking.

The sharp stubble has been traded in for a neatly trimmed beard that I cannot stop touching, especially when I’ve got his face between my thighs. His hair’s longer, too, usually tied back when he’s in the shop or at home, and exponentially more fun to tug on until he makes the prettiest noises.

His body has changed a little too. I made no attempt to hide how much I loved his soft edges right from the start, even if he didn’t agree or understand at first. Now he’s a little softer, a little heavier. I am obsessed, and unable to be even marginally normal about it.

He’s still broad as hell, built for hauling crates and helping the guys down at the docks—but there’s a little more of him now, at his waist, around his stomach, where my hand loves to settle when we’re curled together at night.

It’s like his body finally got permission to stop bracing for the next blow.

Like love softened the edges the sea had long ago sharpened into flint.

He’s warmer when he sprawls on me, and I love it. The full, grounding weight of him. The way he melts into me now, like he knows I can hold him, and he’s safe.

He always is.

I watch him from the kitchen, pretending to clean something while he reads on the couch, lounging like a god with his legs spread wide and a tentacle flicking lazily at his hair where a curl flops down over his forehead.

His shirt’s ridden up to show a soft slope of warm skin, dusted with dark hair.

I want to lick it. I want to bite it.

I’ve been teasing him.

For weeks now, I’ve been circling the idea—whispering suggestions, letting my hand slip between his legs when we fuck, dropping the occasional filthy comment.

I’ve also said it flat out, eyes locked on his. “I want to peg you with one of your tentacles.”

He didn’t answer verbally, but his eyes flared that impossible ultraviolet. All of him stilled for half a second. And then one of his tentacles gripped the leg of the table so hard the wood groaned. So, yeah, I think he likes the idea.

Tonight is the night, that’s what I’ve decided. I want to see just how much he likes it.

I drape myself over Cal’s lap on the couch after dinner, one leg tucked between his, the other slung over his thigh.

One of his tentacles has slipped up under my—his—sleep shirt and is tracing lazy lines up and down my spine.

His skin is warm beneath me, still a little damp from the shower, and I can smell the hint of his shampoo on the air—something dark and green and sharp, like a forest after a long, heavy rain, right before everything bursts into bloom.

There’s a movie playing on the TV, low and ignored. My wine is on the coffee table. I haven’t touched it in fifteen minutes because I’m too busy touching him.

“You’re warm,” I murmur into his neck, kissing the space just beneath his jaw. His beard is soft, and I lift a hand to scrub my fingers through it. He gives a low hum. He likes that almost as much as when I stroke my fingers through his hair.

“Mm.” His hand curls around my thigh, thumb drawing soft little patterns. “You’re always cold.”

“You love keeping me warm.”

“I love everything about you.” He says it so easily, not even looking at me, like it’s a simple fact of the world. Like gravity or the tides .

I grin against his skin. “Even when I’m annoying?”

“Especially when you’re annoying.” A tentacle flicks teasingly at my hip. “You know that.”

I shift my weight over his lap, tilting my hips a little until I feel him stir under me, thickening through the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Cal.”

“Hmm?”

I lean back, just enough to meet his eyes. They glow faintly even in the low light. That’s different too. When we first met, I thought his eyes were gray—but more often than not, now, they’re closer to violet, and they glow.

He likes to tell me it’s because I light him up inside.

I like to tell him he’s a sap, but I don’t mind it really.

I smooth my hands over his chest. “Remember that thing I mentioned a while back?”

His brow lifts, and a slow smirk spreads across his face. “You’re going to have to be more specific, love.”

“I’ve been patient.”

His expression changes slightly. It’s subtle, but I see it. He knows exactly what I’m getting at. One of his tentacles curls possessively around my waist, curving my spine so my stomach presses to his.

“You have,” he says slowly. “Suspiciously so.”

“You never said no ,” I say diplomatically.

He hums noncommittally. “That… is also true.”

My hand glides down the front of his chest, down to the warm curve of his stomach. He’s never been more beautiful. “I want to fuck you.”

His body stills, his eyes flash, the tentacle tracing my spine freezes—but his cock jerks in his pants, which is how I know I’ve got him.

Kill shot.

“I want to use one of your tentacles.” I slide my hand down to palm him through the fabric.

Cal hisses, and his eyes snap up to meet mine, something ravenous in his gaze.

“You’ve thought about it,” I whisper, leaning in to brush my nose against his. “Haven’t you?”

I’m speculating, but after a beat, he nods. Just once, a tight movement, but a nod, nonetheless.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Have you fantasized about it?”

Another pause, then a low groan. “Yes.”

I kiss him slow and deep, tilting his head so he opens for me. My hips roll, just enough to earn another groan as I roll the soft edge of my tongue over his.

“Let me,” I whisper against his mouth. “I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

“You always make me feel good.” His arms tighten around me, and a tentacle winds down my wrist. It slips into my palm, guiding my hand lower. Down over the aching swell of his cock. Cal’s breath stutters, hips lifting to chase the friction, but I don’t linger there.

“You fantasized about it.” My fingers trace light, aimless circles over the soft slope above his navel. “Was that… before me or after?”

He lets out a shaky hum, glancing over my shoulder, as if whatever is on the TV is suddenly very, very interesting. “Does it matter?”

I drag my nose along the line of his jaw. “I think it does.”

The tentacle curled around my waist gives a defensive little flick, then slides lower. It’s a nervous gesture I’ve come to recognize from him. It’s particularly prominent when he’s being evasive.

“After.”

The heat that pulses through me at that admission is sharp and dark and low , pooling in my belly, something writhing and primal. “So, you started thinking about it because of me.”

Cal groans. “ Neviah .”

“ Baby .” I match his tortured tone, only a little mockingly, as I press my mouth to his throat again, then scrape my teeth along it.

“I want to know everything. Did you picture me bending you over? Or riding you while your own tentacle fills you up?” I nip at his collarbone.

“Did you imagine what it’d feel like? If I made you mine like that? ”

His hips jerk beneath me, and he lets out a frustrated little grunt, like he was trying to stifle his reaction but failed spectacularly.

“I—” He swallows, voice fraying at the edges. “You like it when I talk. I thought… I might like you to talk me through it.”

Oh, fuck me.

I try to hide the tremble in my voice as I say, “That’s a good answer.”

His chest rises faster now. Tension builds in his arms, his tentacles coiling a little tighter, closer. They wrap over my skin, curling under the edges of clothing, dipping beneath the hem of my shorts and my shirt.

“Have you experimented?” I press a kiss to his chest and try to be cool about this, but in reality, I am not cool at all. He must scent how wet I am, except I don’t think he’s paying much attention to anything but trying to keep a grip on himself.

“No,” he rasps, but the word catches. “Not—not really.”

“Not really ?” I lift my head, resting my chin on his chest to gaze up at him. “Sounds like yes with extra steps, baby.”

His cheeks flush dark. It’s fucking adorable. I don’t think I’ve loved this man more than I love him right now—and he has literally saved me from drowning.

“I tried,” he admits. “Once. It didn’t… go very far.”

“Why not?” My fingers dip to the waistband of his pants, slipping under the curve of his stomach and sliding down to tease him through the fabric of his boxers. “Wasn’t it good?”

He shudders. His hands flex on my thighs. “Love.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“You’re not easy to kill, or I probably would have done it already.” He huffs a short laugh as my hand slides under the elastic hem of his boxers. He jolts when I touch him, then lifts his hips into it. “And this isn’t dying. I’ve felt it, remember? Dying?”

His grip tightens where his hands are braced on my hips, and he looses a short, animal growl. “ Not funny.” His pupils are blown wide, eyes pinned to mine like I’ve got him under a spell.

I lean in to kiss him, soothing the tension that just built fast in his shoulders at the reminder of that day. “Tiny bit funny,” I breathe against his lips.

Another growl rumbles out of him. “ No . Not even a little.”

I snort a soft laugh. It is a tiny bit funny, but I know it plays on him sometimes, the reality of what could have happened, so I don’t push it.