Page 36 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

James walks back to the table, and Art asks, “Is there something in the eggnog that would make James unsuitable for talking to others? I have read about this drink, and it does apparently contain raw eggs, which can be harmful to the human system if certain bacteria are present. However, I’m sure our company knows this and would have only purchased pasteurized eggnog for human consumption.”

“I’m sure they probably did, but it’s also spiked. They add alcohol to the eggnog every year, and James can be a bit… well, his people skills aren’t so good when he’s had alcohol,” I laugh.

“Perhaps I should not drink the eggnog either, since my people skills often seem deficient,” Art replies, looking skeptically at the drink in his hand like it might be about to bite him.

I laugh again, ready to reassure Art, when I hear Frank’s voice over my shoulder. “Yes, Art, your people skills really don’t need to become any more deficient than they already are.”

We both turn around, and there’s our harpy boss. I have to literally bite my tongue from telling him off for saying that to Art. We’re at the holiday party, for fuck’s sake. Can the man noteverbe nice?

I look over at Art, who has sort of deflated a bit. Even his tentacles look limp and lifeless, and I’m reminded of when he told me he got made fun of in school by bullies. That’s what Frank is right now—just another bully picking on Art.

Fuck it. Boss or not, it doesn’t give him the right to be an asshole.

“Maybe Art isn’t the one who needs people skills, Frank, since you seem pretty deficient in the area of knowing how totreat people with respect,” I say, then I grab Art’s arm and pull him off toward our table of friends without waiting for a reply.

Holiday music is playing in the background, but apparently it isn’t playing loudly enough, or I was angrier than I realized, because everyone stares at us when we get to the table. I pull out a chair for Art and then sit next to him.

His tentacles wrap around me, squeezing along my shoulders and neck like a hug, and I let out a breath, realizing I’m still scowling. I grab Art’s hand and turn to ask if he’s ok. He’s looking at me like I just mapped an entire microsatellite of repetitive DNA in record time, and I stare back, getting lost in his gaze.

“Holy shit, that was awesome,” James murmurs, and Bob grunts in agreement.

That breaks the moment between Art and I, and I laugh self-consciously. “I didn’t mean to be so loud,” I admit. “Is he looking over here?”

“Yup!” Willow, a friend who works with James, answers. “And he looks furious. But then harpies always look cranky to me, so who knows.”

“Hopefully I still have a job by next week,” I mutter, then I shake off the worry. “But we’re here to have fun, and I refuse to let Frank ruin one of my favorite work events. Besides, I’m sure he won’t stay long.” The bosses always make an appearance at the holiday party, but Frank is usually one of the first to leave.

I lean over to give Art a kiss, and he’s got the loveliest little smile on his face as he looks at me. I can’t help leaning my forehead against his, and most of the table gives a sweet “Awww” sound at the two of us before they get back to their conversation, which was apparently about the latest cryptid reality show, which half the table watches.

“Do not worry, Dean Miller. I will not let you lose your job over this,” Art reassures me.

I’m not sure what he can do if Frank sets me in his crosshairs, but that’s a problem for later me. I mean it—I will not let that asshole ruin our evening. Frank leaves the party after about twenty minutes, and I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s gone.

We laugh and joke with the table, and a lot of the decorating crew comes over to chat with us as well. Art seems amazed that so many people talk to him—I don’t think he realized how friendly most of the people we work with really are. I don’t blame him for not knowing. He’s naturally shy, and if he was mostly subjected to Frank and the interns who clearly didn’t get him, then he wouldn’t have found his people at work. When I hear Art deep in conversation with a gorgon about the frailty of the human digestive tract and the consumption of raw eggs while they drink eggnog, I know that he’s finally found his people.

We drink eggnog—I think the gorgon is the one who convinces him to try it—we talk to tons of people, and we snack on all the food the company brought in. When they judge the ugliest sweaters, Art is delighted that he gets an honorable mention ribbon, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile so much at a social event.

We’re swaying on the dance floor, and Art’s tentacles are wrapped around me, but one is holding his ribbon out. “I’m going to hang this up in a place of honor,” he states. “It is the only non-science related prize I have ever won.”

A tentacle reaches down to pat my ass, and Art holds me more tightly. He hasn’t had much eggnog, but it seems just a little bit has made him more handsy… or should I say tentacly?

Either way, he’s been driving me subtly crazy for the last half hour, those tentacles touching and rubbing, never quite being inappropriate, but definitely making me want more of him.

The party is winding down, and I notice that James and Bob don’t seem to be anywhere in sight. I lean in and whisper, “How about we head home? Your tentacles are driving me crazy, Art.”

I press into him, and I can tell by the widening of his eyes and his blush that he can feel my hard on.

“Yes, Dean Miller, that is an excellent idea.” With that he pulls me off the dance floor and toward the exit to the conference room. I give a wave and yell bye to the rest of our group of friends as we pass by, and they mostly chuckle at our rush for the door.

Luckily the company hires drivers to take people home after the party, and Art and I snag a ride outside the front of the building. It isn’t a long drive, thank god, because Art’s tentacles are wandering, touching my chest, my back, my ass… even grazing my already hard cock, and I have a very difficult time not tackling him in the car.

My place is closer, so we end up going there. Once we’re out of the car, Art presses against my back at the door to my apartment. I fumble with the key, barely able to think straight as his tentacles reach around me, one of them gently undulating against the front of my pants.

“Art,” I gasp. “I’m never gonna get the door open if you keep doing that.”

Art’s tentacle stills, but it’s still lightly pressing against my bulge. I somehow manage to get the key in the door and open it, and Art follows closely behind me.

His tentacles grab onto me as soon as the door is shut, stripping my clothes off. My lips seek out his, and we kiss frantically as we stumble into my bedroom. His lips are warm and soft, and our tongues tangle together. I frantically pull at his clothes, and his tentacles help to strip them off after he’s stripped me.

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