Page 22 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle
“Do you like this?” I murmur.
His eyes flutter half-shut, and he makes a soft, satisfied sound. “Mmhmm.”
“I like your hair,” I muse, dragging my nails lightly across his scalp, then curling my fingers again. “It’s thick. Sexy.”
He doesn’t respond, but he leans into my touch like he’s chasing it.
“I’ve been wondering…” I trail off thoughtfully, then give a slow, deliberate tug at the roots.
Cal’s whole body tenses. A quiet, strangled sound punches out of his throat—half growl, half moan—and I grin as his hips lift on reflex.
“Okay, yes,” I whisper, pleased. “You like that.”
His tentacles slide over me again, at first only seeming to explore, gentle and curious. Then, without warning, he flips me, fast and sure. I land on my back with a breathless gasp, naked beneath him, where he’s still in his jeans. He cages me with his weight braced over me, his tentacles spreading around us like a net.
He smirks down at me, voice low and teasing. “Greedy little trespasser. You wanted to know what sounds I make as well?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
He hums thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Maybe you’d like to learn what kind of sounds I make when you suck my cock.”
My breath catches. I know my eyes must be wide as saucers, but I nod without hesitation. “Yes, please. I want to see the tentacle cock.”
He chuckles. “It’s not a tentacle, remember?”
I bite my lip. “Can you make it like one?”
His laugh turns dark, rough with arousal. I feel it pour over my skin like static. “You really are a dirty, needy little thing, aren’t you? You want to be filled up with all of me?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, please.”
He sits back on his knees, then stands, and I gaze up from where I’m sprawled beneath him. He moves slowly, deliberately, pushing his jeans down, followed by his boxers, just enough to free himself.
I forget how to breathe. It’s a distant memory, breathing. But that’s alright, because if he fucks me with that thing, I know I’ll die happy.
Finally, a startled exhale escapes me, sharp and involuntary, so I guess I’ll live for however much more oxygen that gives me. I take that time to absorb the sight of him.
His cock is thick and heavy. The same deep gray-blue shade as his tentacles, flushed darker at the tip, like storm clouds swollen with rain. It’s patterned in ridges—subtle but unmistakable,winding along the shaft like the currents of some ancient tide.
It’s also… sheening. Glossed in something faintly iridescent, like light moving over fish scales. Pearls and seawater and dark things pulled from the deep.
“You said—” I start, stall. My voice sounds weak and distant. I flex my fingers against the couch cushions. “Uh… not a tentacle dick?”
He glances down at himself, casually fisting the length and dragging a slow, deliberate stroke from root to tip. I watch the way it glistens, how even his large hand only wraps it with about an inch of overlap at his fingertips.
Yes, I’ll definitely die, but I’ll definitely die happy, if he fucks me with that.
I really want him to fuck me with that.
“It’s not a tentacle dick,” he says simply.
My brain stutters. “It’s got ridges.”
“Yes.”
“It’s sparkling.”
His eyes widen with affront. “It is not.”
