Page 8 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle

The change is immediate. Urgent . His large hands grip my thighs, pressing me wide open as he buries his face against me, licking through the cotton with single-minded hunger. Then he’s yanking the fabric roughly aside, baring me.

The flat of his tongue laves over me, slick and unyielding, but then he apparently decides he hasn’t got good enough access, because he pulls away sharply, lets out a rough, low sound, then tears my underwear from waistband to gusset on both sides.

The sound of fabric ripping is obscenely loud in the room, followed by the close second of my labored breathing. I’m too far gone for words, so I just watch as he flashes a smirk, yanking the tattered fabric out from under my ass and tossing it over his shoulder before he leans in again.

He seems both frantic and controlled, and it’s such a strange dichotomy I can’t help but watch him, mesmerized. His tongue fucks into me, hot and slick and unlike anything I’ve felt. It moves differently. Deeper, more agile, and without a doubt longer.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck , Cal— What the hell is your tongue—” I cut off with a gasp. “I’ve never— It’s never felt like—”

The growl he makes is low and primal. Then I’m being yanked forward hard, dragged against his mouth. Tentacles curl under my thighs and around my hips, no longer content to sit by and watch. They pin me while he devours me like a man possessed.

My vision whites out, and I rock up against his face, riding his tongue shamelessly until he pulls back just enough to lift his gaze to mine. He teases my clit with his fingers, stroking it in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing me away from the edge he put me on.

“I don’t like that,” he mutters.

Actually, it’s more like a petulant little grumble, and it’s borderline fucking adorable.

My breath stutters, a laugh squeaking out of me. “What don’t you like?”

“Other men tasting you. Touching you.” He doesn’t look at me, just glares down at my pussy, like he can see the evidence of past partners there, and it displeases him. “I want to erase the memory of them from your skin. Until it’s only me left.”

I moan, high and helpless, because who the fuck says that and why is it doing it for me?

“You’re—yes, okay.” My head drops back. I stare at the ceiling. “Well, you’re doing a good job of that.”

His fingers dip lower, spreading me open. “Then I’ll persist.”

“You’ll get there, I’m sure,” I say weakly.

He hums an approving sound, sliding two long, thick fingers inside me and crooking them up. My hips buck, a short, sharp sound bursting out of me.

“If it’s any consolation,” I murmur, breath hitching when he slides his fingers free and presses his mouth back over my slit, “you’re my first… well, I don’t actually know what you are. But you’re my first.”

He stills slightly, just enough for me to feel the heat of his breath against me. I lift my head, and my hand moves to stroke through his damp hair, as if to calm him.

He grunts, a disagreeable sound, and nips roughly at my clit, then immediately soothes the sting with a slow sweep of his tongue and the soft suction of his lips. “Last.”

I blink down at him, dazed. “What?”

His tongue drags down, sliding inside me again, thick and textured in a way it wasn’t before.

“Last,” he snaps, voice muffled against me. “I’ll be your last , too.”

“Last… tentacle man?” I manage, eyes rolling back into my skull even as I say it.

He answers with a low, guttural moan, arms tightening around my thighs. His tentacles anchor me fast—gripping my hips, curling over my ribs—and his mouthdevoursme. He’s relentless. Like he wants to consume me from the inside out.

“Last anything ,” he growls against my soaked pussy. The words vibrate through me like electricity. “Last and only . Mine, mine, mine .”

I don’t have time to respond before he does something unholy with his tongue. It turns longer, ridged, curved just right, and he drives it deep. My vision bursts into white and my spine snaps taut, bowing off the sofa. I cry out as I come, shuddering apart on his mouth.

He licks me through it, moaning like a man worshipping at an altar, like he never wants to stop tasting me. Like he could die right here and that’d be okay with him.

The problem is, I could also die right here from overstimulation—and that’s not okay with me, because if I’m dead he can’t make me come like that again.

“Oh! Jesus, Cal,please— too much —” The words are garbled with a high, trembling whimper, but he must get the message, because finally he slows to a stop.

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is glossy, and his chin is slick. Those stormy eyes are almost black. Not just with arousal—though that’s definitely still there—but with something heavier and deeper, like the parts of the ocean the light rarely touches.

He lifts to his knees, dragging his mouth along the soft inside of my thigh, the swell of my hip, the dip of my belly. When he finally lowers his weight onto me and brings his lips to mine, his kiss is slow and seeking, and I can taste myself on his tongue.

My hands move without thinking, pushing his damp shirt up. He helps me strip it off then tosses it aside before reaching for the hem of my dress. The fabric clings as he peels it off me, and then his hands are on my breasts, palming the weight of them like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

I slide my hands down his chest, over the firm muscle and subtle give of his stomach, feeling him tense slightly under my touch as I trace the line of his belt.

“So,” I breathe, fingers working the buckle loose, “What exactly are you?”

His hands still, resting against the curve of my ribs.

“I don’t know,” he says flatly. “It was never explained to me. I had to… work it out. Alone.”

“Do you know anyone else like you?”

He shakes his head once.

“You must be lonely.”

His gaze drops, lashes low. Something bursts open in my chest.

“You already pointed that out,” he says softly. “Yes.”

I reach up and frame his face, tilting his chin up and holding him there, so he has to look at me. His eyes are dark and depthless, but not lightless.

“You don’t feel lonely now, do you?” I ask. “I hope you don’t. But if you still do, then tell me what I can do to make it better.”

He doesn’t answer with words, but the expression on his face is enough.My hand drifts down again, resting just above the waistband of his jeans, where the skin is soft and warm, lightly dusted with hair. I pause.

“Can I touch you?” I ask. “Would that help you feel better? ”

The sound he makes is half exhale, half whimper, high and soft and so unexpectedly vulnerable that my own breath catches in response.

“Yes.” His voice is shaky, edged with a lilt of sheepish laugh. “Maybe it would.”

I grin up at him, emboldened by the crack in his calm.

“So,” I murmur, fingers brushing the line of his fly. I can feel him hot and hard, pressed against the placket of his jeans. “Can I try and make you feel better?”

His jaw flexes. He nods. His tentacles jitter around me, fluttering over my skin like they don’t know what to do.

“I want to hear you say it,” I whisper. “Tell me you want me to touch you. I want your words. I need to know I’m not misreading you.”

His eyes flick to mine, something wild and broken open in them.

“I want you to touch me,” he says hoarsely.

“Good.” I pop the button open and drag the zipper down, slow and teasing. His breath shudders out of him.

“If I haven’t been clear,” he grits out, voice rough, “I want you. I want you so badly it hurts. I need you— need you so much I’d give up anything. I’d forfeit the ocean, the rain, every favorite tide pool, just for another taste of you.”

A breathless giggle escapes me, light and incredulous. “You have a favorite tide pool? That’s ridiculously cute. Will you take me there?”

His hands, still resting at my hips, tighten, and the tentacles softly probing my body flex with want, like a responding pulse. “Yes. Please. I’ll take you anywhere. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

I lean in and kiss him, soft and sure, so he knows I’m not making fun of him, but my heart feels so full there’s no way for it to spill over other than laughter. When I pull back, I whisper, “Could you take me to another orgasm, then? That one was really good, but I think you can do better.”

He smirks, slow and dark and endlessly pleased. “You doubt me, little trespasser?”

His fingers find my pussy again, teasing, stroking, circling my clit and sliding through slick. His other hand cups my breast, thumb dragging over my nipple.

“No,” I gasp. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Maybe not,” I say, turning us on the sofa, pushing him back into the cushions. “But I think I do. And just in case I’ve misunderstood, maybe I need you to talk me through it.”

I straddle his lap, grinding down against the thick press of his cock through his jeans. His breath stutters, hands sliding up my thighs.

“You like being a little tease?” he growls.

I open my mouth to answer, but a tentacle slides over it before I can speak.

“Hmm. No,” he says smoothly. “Don’t answer that. I suspect I already know what you’re going to say.”

I snort. Credit where credit is due, he catches on fast.

I toy with his belt again, unbuckling it fully, and he watches my fingers like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. The tentacle still at my mouth pulses with heat, but when I reach up and curl my fingers around it, he withdraws it with care.

I grin down at him. “You didn’t really want me quiet, did you?”

His smile is a bright flash, like a firework. “No, love.”

My chest explodes with heat. If dearest Neviah almost ended me, love has me six feet under.

“I don’t mind if you want to restrain me,” I murmur, dragging my palms slowly up his chest, savoring the way his skin jumps under my touch. “I actually like the idea of that. A lot.”

Cal’s eyes darken immediately, tentacles shifting and flexing in interest.