Page 2 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle

“That mouth is going to get you into trouble,” he mutters.

I flash a smile and watch it hit him like a physical thing. “You promise?”

He huffs a breath, barely audible, like he’s letting the idea of a laugh pass through him and then discarding it.

“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “You’ll need it.”

He slips past me like water and disappears into the shop, the door swinging closed behind him with a final click.

“Are you threatening me with a good time?” I call after him, but he doesn’t answer.

Which is a shame. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

I blow out a breath and finally turn toward the stairs. The whole building seems to exhale with me, warm air pulsing through the narrow hall like it’s alive. Upstairs, the attic waits. I sling my bag over my shoulder and climb.

The stairs creak under my boots, narrow and uneven and very steep, like they were built by hand a century ago and never checked since. I take my chances anyway.

The upper doorway is to the left, and the threshold shares about a foot of real estate with the top step of the stairs. Perfect. Can’t wait to take a swan dive down there when I’m drunk or not paying attention.

It’s warm up here. Warmer than it should be, considering the storm I drove through and the fact that there’s no visible radiator.

The air smells like brine and cedar, and something else I can’t name.

Not unpleasant, just other . Like the tail end of a summer storm clinging to fabric, stubborn and damp and a little nostalgic.

The space itself is surprisingly large. Low ceilings, angled walls, exposed beams. It’s well-maintained, too, but I find that less surprising. I wasn’t just flirting when I told Cal he looks like he’s good with his hands.

There’s a window tucked under the eave, a little grimy but clearly ancient. A bed frame sits against the far wall, mattress still wrapped in plastic, with a neatly folded set of sheets on top. A mismatched dresser by the en suite bathroom door leans to the left like it’s lowkey trying to escape .

The floor hums faintly under my feet when I step inside. It isn’t loud, but it’s enough vibration to make the hairs on my arms lift. I tell myself it’s just the pipes. Old buildings make noise, water moves, and wood settles.

I drop my bag beside the bed and toe off my boots. The mattress hisses when I sit, air soughing out and plastic crinkling under my ass.

Directly below, I can hear the faint sound of Cal moving around the shop.

Heavy steps. A door creaking open, then shut again.

A distinct squeaking and dragging noise, a grunt, then a slam—like there’s a door sinking on its hinges and he has to force it closed.

No voice and no music, just his presence under my feet.

I lean back on my elbows and stare up at the angled ceiling. It’s definitely not the worst place I’ve ever stayed.

I don’t mean to fall asleep. I lie back on the plastic-wrapped mattress with every intention of just resting my eyes, and only for a second, then I’ll put the sheets on and unpack my bag.

But the hum of the attic settles under me, warm and steady like a low, dragging pulse. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I just know I’m no longer awake.

The ocean is dark, but the water is warm.

I’m in it, but I’m not standing in it—I’m being held.

Lifted, or cradled, almost. A hand presses low on my stomach, not hard at all, but heavy enough to know it’s there, and know I like the feeling.

Another slides around my thigh, wet skin against mine, stroking the inside of it with a touch that makes me feel a bit dizzy, then hot all over.

Something coils behind my hips. I know it can’t be a hand, because there’s already been two of those. This is something thicker, smoother and more dexterous. I don’t know what it is, and for some reason that doesn’t frighten me, because it moves like it belongs there.

I breathe in salt and heat and something I can’t name and don’t really understand, because it floods my lungs like it should drown me, but I keep on breathing.

A voice murmurs something at the back of my neck, deep and low, the syllables strange and round.

I don’t understand a word, but I don’t need to because I can feel it.

The sound of it ripples straight down my spine and settles between my legs like it was poured there on purpose.

Lava or electricity or fire. I shift, and the hands shift with me.

There’s no hesitation. Just touch and pressure and need.

My hips roll up into it, greedy for every stroke, every wet, obscene slide of whatever’s inside me. I don’t remember it slipping inside me, but there it is.

It’s thick and hot. It moves like it knows what it’s doing—like it’s done it before. I grip around it, clenching so tight I feel it pulse back, deeper, harder, more .

My legs shake. My breath catches. Distantly, I hear the crackling of the mattress cover, although the attic room I fell asleep in feels thousands of miles away from me right now.

The heat builds fast, sharp and relentless, curling tight through my belly until it hits all at once, all over me. Every nerve sings. My body seizes around the pressure, muscles drawn so tight it borders on painful.

I come with a cry I can’t swallow. It tears out of me and echoes. My thighs snap closed. I pulse around nothing, and I feel so suddenly bereft when I wake up gasping, sweat slick at the back of my neck and the plastic wrap of the mattress damp under me.

My hand is between my legs, shoved into my soaked underwear.

I’m still aching, still clenching with aftershocks, still needy for more.

I grind down with the heel of my palm, almost reflexively, chasing that same pulse, that same pressure, like my body can’t let it go, even though I know it’s already gone.

It gives me this weird, choked feeling like I might cry, because whatever it was, I wanted to keep it.

I sit up slowly, legs trembling. The attic is quiet except for the creak of the floorboards and the steady sound of water ticking through the pipes.

The air smells stronger now—brine and cedar still, but also something heavier and more alive.

The window pulses with the silver-gray light of early morning.

I cross to it barefoot, rub grime from the glass with my sleeve, and lean in close to look out.

Down by the shoreline, someone is standing on the dock—and I think it’s Cal.

He’s bare from the waist up, hoodie discarded in a heap behind him.

His back is so broad it makes my mouth water, all muscle and shadow and long, carved lines between his shoulder blades, sliding down to softness at his middle.

He braces both hands on the dock railing, head bowed like he’s catching his breath.

His chest rises and falls with so much effort I can see it from here.

I press my hand to the glass without thinking. He doesn’t move, but I swear something shifts behind him. The light blurs like something deep and fluid and not quite part of this world is draped behind his body—but it’s so dim I can’t tell, and when I blink, it’s gone.

He lifts his head and turns, gaze cutting straight to me as if magnetized. I jerk back and stumble, heart racing. I don’t know if he saw me watching him.

The hum in the attic picks up again, faint but insistent, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, palm still damp with condensation from the window. I drag it down my bare thigh, and goosebumps rise in its wake.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dream like that. Then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve come like that, too. I press my legs together, breathing deep and slow and steady, then I force myself up to strip the plastic off the mattress and put the sheets on.

I don’t know what the hell that was.

I don’t know where I went, but I think I want to go there again.