Page 27 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

I feel like I must be on one of those prank shows. I look around the office, kind of wondering if this is being filmed or something. Here I was worried about getting in trouble for dating, and it seems like they’re negotiating when we can have sex at work.

“I…” I start off, but I don’t even know what else to say.

Harry looks at me. “And don’t you be bringing any drama into work. You keep your fights at home and don’t distract Art from his work. And if you break up, you either work nice together or come down for a transfer, but don’t be making a hostile work environment, because I don’t have time for that. Are we clear?”

“Of course, Harry Ebershoff. I’m glad we could come to a satisfactory conclusion, as always,” Art says, smiling.

Just then Harry’s door bursts open, and a small, winged creature comes flying into the room. “He called meshort!” they exclaim, and then they burst into tears.

Harry sighs, and then his head disappears from behind the pile of papers on the desk, and he appears on our side a moment later. He’s probably only four feet tall, and yet he’s still bigger than the winged creature who has landed amidst the papers on his desk.

“Alright, then,” he says, making a shooing motion at us.”Off you go. No sex in the lab or during work time. No drama. No complaints. Art, I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

With that, we both get up and leave as he tries to calm down the sobbing winged creature. When we leave and shut the door behind us, I’m still more than a little confused.

“That was…” I start, but again, I don’t know how to finish.

“Dean Miller, I hope this sets your mind at ease,” Art says, and his tentacles lightly brush against me, gesturing toward the elevator.

“You’ve been to see him a lot?” I ask, because I’m still trying to wrap my brain around that whole experience.

“Yes. As you are aware, I have had some issues with previous lab technicians. Harry Ebershoff is a most logical creature, and he knows the handbook quite well. I have found our discussions to always be productive. He is fully aware I do not break the written rules of the workplace,” Art answers, and I don’t think I’m imagining the smug tone to his voice.

Yes, I can see that Art would make sure not to. It’s the unwritten rules and the social cues that he has a hard time following.

“Did he just basically say employees can have sex at work?” I ask, still stuck on that point.

“It is not strictly against company policy, although that has always surprised me. However, I guess when you employ incubi and succubi, you can’t very well rule it out completely,” Art answers. He looks at me shyly then. “I have never considered having sexual relations at work before.”

I laugh—I can’t help it. Here I was, worried about people finding out we’re dating. Meanwhile, we basically got permission to have sex breaks. “Well, Art, that would be another experience I’d be willing to help you with. But maybe after we get some work done for the day,” I joke.

Art smiles at me, and I smile at him, and I’m sort of glad the elevator dinging at our floor interrupts us, because sex at work is sounding better and better.

I knew working for a cryptid company would be different, but even I couldn’t guess just how different it would be.

Art

Over the next couple weeks, Dean Miller is a major distraction. He walks into the lab with his ridiculously symmetrical face and soft lips every morning, and instead of giving me a verbal greeting like everyone else, he kisses me. How am I supposed to focus in the morning when I know he’s about to make every nerve ending in my body light up like a firework?

Sometimes he approaches from behind and wraps his warm arms around me while I’m trying to look through a microscope. It’s highly unprofessional. We’re supposed to be working. But I don’t tell him to stop. I’ve discovered that work is a lot more enjoyable when a handsome man has his arms around me.

Dean Miller takes me with him to a large grove of Christmas trees, all potted by wood nymphs so they’ll survive the holiday season. We bring one home and decorate it together with strands of popcorn, candy canes, and the lopsided little ornaments he carved with his dad when he was a child. He teaches me how to make spicy gingerbread and brew eggnog over a fire. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by Christmas every December. It’s always felt like an invasive species—something unwelcome and unavoidable. But no one’s shown methe beauty of it before. Dean Miller has this secret smile that I’ve only seen when he’s rolling out gingerbread dough or trying to haul a Christmas tree that’s much too big for his apartment over his shoulder.

I think I’d be willing to suffer through a hundred Christmases if it means seeing that smile on his face.

Between the Christmas trees and the mildly disgusting holiday foods, we have lots of sex. I get to taste him everywhere. I get to push inside him, drag my tentacles across his skin, and kiss every inch of his face. After a lifetime of barely touching anyone, it’s overwhelming to get to touch Dean Miller that much. And since that touching generally happens after we’ve done something festive, I am embarrassed to admit that Christmassy things are somewhat arousing now.

The day we’re scheduled to decorate for the work Christmas party begins just like any other. Dean Miller distracts me when he arrives at work. I’ve already been there for hours, obviously. I get up much earlier than he does. He distracts me several more times throughout the morning with casual touches that don’t feel casual at all. I would be annoyed if I didn’t like those touches so much. But there’s an unexpected turn at lunchtime when he swings by my section of the lab and whispers, “Ready to go?” in my ear.

“I brought a packed lunch today,” I say.

“I mean to my apartment. We’re making sugar cookies for the party, remember? And then you’re going to help me decorate the tree in the conference room where they’re holding the holiday party.”

I narrow my eyes. “When did I agree to this plan?”

“A couple nights ago when we were in your tub? We were… in the middle of other things. Exciting things.”

“You mean engaging in sexual intercourse,” I say.

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