Rowan stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, the thick tentacle still buried deep inside her, pulsing gently like a second heartbeat. Her skirt was bunched around her waist, panties pushed aside, and her modest white blouse was damp with sweat where the smaller tentacles had teased her breasts through the fabric. The taste of sweet ink still lingered on her tongue.

She should have slammed the grimoire shut. She should have run up the spiral stairs and never looked back.

Instead, her trembling fingers hovered over the corner of the next page.

The tentacle inside her gave an encouraging little thrust, as if urging her on. The voice...