Page 12 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

This seems so easy for him. He’s probably brought back dozens, if not hundreds, of guys to his place. That scares me a little bit. If we kiss or do something more than that, it would be special to me. I don’t let people get this close. However, I’m not sure it would be special for Dean Miller. He’d be nice afterwards, because that’s how he is, but I don’t think he’d take it very seriously.

Maybe that’s okay. If I took physical closeness less seriously, I probably wouldn’t still be a virgin.

I remove my hat and unwind my scarf slowly. I take my coat off next and pause before removing my shoes. Dean Miller is still wearing his. That probably means he expects me to as well. Cephalopod shifters never wear shoes in the house. That makes me worry there are other things I’m supposed to do or not do that I’m not aware of. I walk toward his couch and sit at the edge, hoping I haven’t messed up in some way.

“Thank you for coming home with me,” he says.

“I didn’t do it as a favor. I wanted to,” I assure him.

He smiles. “Good.”

My tentacles slither across the cushion between us. One of them slides across his shoulders, and another rests on his knee.

“Sorry,” I say.

He places his hand on the one covering his knee, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

Suddenly, I understand the need for a movie or something to draw attention away from how awkward this is.

“I like mysteries,” I tell him. “It’s enjoyable to guess who did it. I also like movies with Timothee Chalamet. I find him visually pleasing.”

He does this thing between a laugh and a cough. “Okay. Can’t argue there.” He sets down his hot chocolate and reaches for the remote. My tentacle winds around his other hand. For the first time, I’m relieved that I can’t stop them. I enjoy the taste of DeanMiller’s skin, and I would never have the courage to come on to him on my own.

“We don’t need to watch a movie,” he says, turning back to me.

“I thought we were dancing?”

He nods. “I think we still are.” He lifts his hand that’s currently wrapped in my tentacle and slowly brings it to his mouth. I hold my breath as he brushes his lips against my skin. “You are so sexy.”

Just like on the ice, the rest of my tentacles wrap themselves around him. The only difference is that I want them to this time. I’m not embarrassed. Not when Dean Miller looks at me like that and calls me sexy. There’s no coat between us this time, just a thin layer of fabric.

“Fuck, Art. That’s just…” he trails off, like he doesn’t have a word for how much he likes being wrapped up in me.

My tentacles wind tighter around him, bringing him in closer. He watches them with an awe that makes all my anxiety melt away. A man has never reacted to me this way before. It makes me feel reckless. Dean Miller said this was a mating ritual, didn’t he? That means we get to kiss, doesn’t it?

Our knees press together. We’re close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. He’s the one who closes the gap. His lips are warm and wonderfully soft. He kisses me so gently, it’s easy to believe that thisisspecial to him. The kiss deepens naturally, our mouths opening together. The heat of his tongue in my mouth sends a shock of pleasure through my whole body. The intensity of it is too much. I take in a sharp breath.

He pulls away and looks into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Can we do that again?”

He grins at me. I can almost feel his happiness in my own body, that’s how connected we are. He kisses me harder this time, spearing his tongue in my mouth with a confidence thatleaves me breathless. I taste him everywhere—his mouth on mine, his salty skin under my suckers. Not just his neck, because one of my tentacles has slid up his shirt, and I can taste his bare back. He moans at the contact, and I can feel the sound of it to my core. He grabs the back of my head with his hand and devours me. I feel myself grow hard, and I wonder if he is too, but I’m not sure if that’s the kind of thing I’m allowed to ask.

I want to drag my tentacles down his back with the suckers latched to his skin. That’s something cephalopod shifters do to each other when they kiss. How would Dean Miller react to something like that? Should I ask? If I don’t, my tentacles might do it on their own.

I pull away from him all at once, my tentacles retreating. They don’t want to do something without his consent either. At least that’s something we can all agree on.

Dean looks back at me in a daze. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, it’s just… I want to do things I need consent for. Particularly with my suckers. They would like to mark you. They do that by dragging the rough part of their suction cups against your skin. It shouldn’t hurt much?—”

“I consent,” Dean says. “Enthusiastically.”

“It will leave a mark,” I warn him.

“That’s fine.”

“But aren’t you worried?—”

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