Page 19 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle
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 yourlast, 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.
“Lastanything,” he growls against my soaked pussy. The words vibrate through me like electricity. “Last andonly. 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’snotokay 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, becausefinally 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.”
