Sea Change (Octopian Shifters Book 2)

Elliot's octopian shifter side is at odds with the proper gentleman he knows he really is. He can't deny that he needs Declan’s rock-like stability to get through the shifts at low tide during the supermoon. Elliot is the water flowing along the riverbed, the waves crashing against the bluffs. Declan is the rocky gorge that holds him and contains him, the cliffs standing firm, keeping him where he belongs. 

Declan's love anchors Elliot while their passion permits him to shift back to human from octopian. But their nights together take an increasing toll on Declan and if they can't find answers, Elliot must give Declan up for his own good.

Return to the sexy, tentacle-filled world of the octopians, where passion sucks Elliot and Declan into a whirlpool of love and desire with consequences that ripple far beyond their relationship. 

Declan Fitzgerald splashed through the cold surf on the shoreline and rolled the whiskey cask up the short rocky beach. He could barely see his fingertips when Joey Carrigan took the barrel from him and stacked it atop the others inside a shallow cave hollowed out in the bluff, but he imagined they were as blue as his lips felt. A small lantern lit Joey’s face in a ghostly grimace.

“Colder than a monkey’s brass balls,” Declan commented. He helped Joey stack a dozen or so whiskey casks against the back of the cave. It had been a natural depression in the bluff before Declan’s men had chipped away enough to make a decent hiding place.

“‘Least you can look forward to your man warming you up tonight,” Joey said with a sly smirk. 

Declan cuffed the boy across the back of the head. “Less lip from you, lad, and more stacking. Thomas is right behind me with a half a dozen more of these to get in before the clouds clear.”

Joey ducked his head and hoisted a third barrel atop one of the stacks. Not so much a boy anymore. He was still slight of frame, but the last few years of working as first mate aboard Declan’s ship had built enough lean muscle to handle the heavy barrels of the liquor Declan smuggled into Washington on his frequent voyages between the States and British Columbia. 

He was beardless and short enough to stand upright in the small cave, but his face was sunburned and weathered, making him look older than his eighteen years, and he’d lost the gangling adolescent awkwardness he’d had when Declan first found him stowed away aboard his ship. Joey carried himself with the confidence of a man living life on his own terms now. 

Once they finished unloading the liquor, they’d round the peninsula at Point Wilson, sail into Port Townsend Bay, and declare the goods they’d brought that didn’t have exorbitant excise fees. This section of the beach was inaccessible during high tide, so they’d return during tomorrow afternoon’s low tide in a wagon to collect the liquor. 

In town, they’d tap the casks into plain brown jugs, dilute about half of them with water, and pack the jugs into the wagon for distribution to the restaurants and saloons in Port Townsend, Port Ludlow, and a handful of other towns in Jefferson County. 

Then he’d pack the Black Dove with goods to take back to the various towns in British Columbia he traded with, maybe sail to San Francisco for anything he couldn’t get here, and head back to start the circuit again. 

After a few weeks of shore leave in Port Townsend. Declan stepped out from under the cave’s opening and stretched to his full height. He twisted left, then right, cracking the kinks from stooping under the cave’s ceiling out of his back, then wrapped his arms around himself and chafed his cold hands up and down to warm up. He might be getting a little old for this life. At least he could look forward to a fire and a hot dinner at the Bishop house, followed by some even hotter activities with Elliot later in the evening. A hot meal, a stiff drink, and a good fuck, and he’d be back in form in no time. 

“Speaking of your man.” Joey’s voice sounded behind him. 

“Let’s not,” Declan replied. Joey went on as if he hadn’t heard him. 

“Tomorrow’s full moon is a supermoon, ain’t it?”

Declan glanced at the dark sky above. As if he needed reminding about the supermoon. Thick clouds rolled in front of the nearly full moon, obscuring most of its light, but a faint corona gleamed behind the drifting clouds. The new moon was better for avoiding the revenue cutters, but they’d been delayed by fog at the entrance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca a week longer than Declan had planned. 

As proud as Declan was of his first mate, he could do without this newfound habit of sassing his captain. He’d undoubtedly learned it from Thomas Cuevas, the Black Dove’s cook, who was now rowing the small gig toward them with the last of the barrels. On the other hand, Joey could just as likely have inherited his mother’s absolute disregard for authority along with her small chin and delicate features. 

At least the dim light made loading and unloading a little easier. The north beach of the peninsula was only a couple of miles as the crow flies from downtown, but most townsfolk rarely ventured this far. The handful of S’Klallam who remained on the peninsula still portaged their canoes from this beach, over a series of marshy ponds, to the lagoon, then down to the bay, avoiding the riptides around Point Wilson. But more often, the beach was a convenient place to offload wool, liquor, opium, or other items under the noses of the excisemen. Some crews had smuggled Chinese folk from British Columbia since the Chinese Exclusion Act had outlawed immigration, though Declan generally kept to transporting goods rather than people. 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Declan growled. His crew paid as much attention to the position of the moon and stars as any sailor did, but Joey, Thomas, a handful of others, knew something of the significance the supermoon had to Declan and Elliot.

“We’re just glad you’ll be reunited with him soon. Maybe a walk on the beach, full moon overhead? Kinda romantic, ain’t it?” Joey’s tone was jovial, but the faint starlight reflected the glint in his eyes as he nattered on.

“Jesus, Joey, fucking drop it, would you?” 

“See?” Joey sidestepped out of Declan’s reach quickly, but didn’t quit. “You’ve been madder than a spitting cat for weeks. If you don’t get some soon, Thomas and I was going to drag you from the ship to the nearest brothel and leave you there until your mood improved.”

Joey splashed into the surf’s edge and grabbed the bow of the gig, holding it steady while Thomas disembarked, then helped Thomas drag the craft a few feet up the beach. “Ain’t that what we said, Thomas?”

Thomas cast Joey a dour look, and Declan winced internally. It’d been more than a year since Declan had been with Thomas, and they’d never been permanent. Still, he tried not to rub his relationship with Elliot in Thomas’s face. 

“Drop it, Joey. Drop it right the fuck now.” 

“Sounds like you’re the one in need of a good fuck, Jo-Jo,” Thomas said. He lifted a barrel over the gig’s side with a grunt. He rolled it up the beach toward the cave, tossing over his shoulder, “About time we take him to the Cliff House, don’t you think, Captain?”

The Cliff House, less than a mile as the crow flies, was nestled at the base of a high cliff between Point Wilson and Point Hudson. Declan chafed his hands against each other, trying to rub some feeling back into his fingers. It would be warm there, the whiskey and beer would flow like water, and the sounds of music and revelry that roared within would drown out the pounding of the surf against the sands. The Black Dove’s crew would smoke, drink, gamble, and dance the night away with the rest of the Port Townsend residents who enjoyed the kinds of entertainment the Cliff House specialized in. 

But these enticements paled in comparison to what Declan really wanted. The thought of Elliot’s tentacles wrapped around his waist and Elliot’s thick tentacle cock pushing into him stiffened his own prick. He’d fucked and been fucked by Elliot in his fully human form countless times, and that was always good, but he couldn’t deny a shiver of anticipation at the idea of putting his hands all over the velvet softness of Elliot’s half-devilfish skin, and of the extra limbs that held him tight.

“Keep a barrel to take to the Cliff House and give Oregon Jack my compliments,” Declan said to Thomas. “I’m heading home for the evening.” The crew would have more fun without him, and Declan couldn’t wait any longer to be with Elliot. Even if he didn’t shift until tomorrow’s supermoon, they’d have all night to make up for his months away. 

Thomas nodded, and Joey opened his mouth, no doubt for more teasing. Thomas shouldered him roughly and jerked his chin at the last barrel waiting to be stacked in the cave. “Basta, cabrón,” he said, and for once, Joey listened to his elder. Joey finished rolling the barrel up the beach and disappeared into the cave. 

Thomas offered Declan a drag from one of the vile cigarillos he had a habit of smoking, but Declan shook his head. “Give my regards to your stepbrother,” Thomas said on an indrawn breath, then bent over and hacked out a rusty cough. Declan pounded him on the back until he spit a gob of something on the beach and straightened up. “Tell him he owes me the end of that story he was reading to us last year.”

Declan chuckled. “Will do.” They waited in companionable silence until Joey returned. Still another couple hours until they rounded Point Wilson, guided around its rocky shoals by the lighthouse there, and docked at Union Wharf. But then he’d be home. Where Elliot was waiting for him.