Page 119 of The Words Beneath the Noise

I looked up, met his eyes, and saw everything—fear and need, hope and longing, the raw, aching desire to be seen, to be known, to be loved.

“You’re perfect,” I told him, voice thick. “Perfect for me. I want to make you feel good. Let me?”

He nodded, too overwhelmed for words, his body saying yes in every way that mattered.

I slid my hand inside his trousers, finally, skin on skin, wrapping around his cock. He was so hot, so hard, already leaking, and I stroked him slow, watching the way his eyes fluttered, the way his mouth fell open in a silent cry.

“Easy,” I whispered, thumbing the wet tip, teasing him with a gentleness that felt almost obscene. “Let me take care of you.”

His hips bucked helplessly, searching for more, but I kept my grip steady, squeezing just enough to draw out another gasp—then let go, moving my hands to his waistband, fumbling with the button and zip. He lifted for me, so eager, so desperate, and I tugged his trousers down, careful not to rush, baring inch after inch of pale, trembling skin. His cock slapped up against his belly, flushed dark, thick, already dripping.

I knelt beside the bed, pressing kisses along the jut of his hip, inhaling the scent of sweat and salt and something unmistakably him. His hand found my hair, not to guide or demand, just anchoring himself, grounding us both in the reality of this moment.

“Tom, you don’t have to?—”

I looked up, locking eyes with him, letting him see the want that was burning through me. “I want to. Let me see you. Let me have you.”

He nodded, just once, biting his lip, his chest heaving with each breath. I slid his trousers all the way off, then reached forhis underwear, dragging them down slow, baring him fully at last. He was beautiful—every inch of him, every tremor, every sharp angle and soft hollow, every mark and scar.

“God, you’re perfect,” I breathed, almost reverent. I pressed my mouth to the inside of his thigh, open-mouthed kisses, tongue dragging over the shivery skin there, feeling the muscles tense and jump beneath me. His scent was overwhelming, dizzying—need and fear and trust all tangled up together.

He reached for me, fingers trembling, as if he needed to touch something solid, something real. I took his hand, lacing our fingers together, then leaned in and buried my face against his cock, just breathing him in. He whimpered, hips twitching, but I held him still, mouthing along the length of him, tasting salt and skin and the sharpness of his desire.

“Please—” His voice was barely more than a breath, pleading, desperate.

I looked up again, saw the way his eyes shone—so open, so raw, sohis—and then I let myself have him.

I pressed a slow, careful kiss to the tip of his cock, then dragged my tongue down the length, tracing the vein with aching slowness. I licked and sucked, savoring every reaction, every ragged gasp, every helpless sound he tried to swallow. When I took him into my mouth, he sobbed, one hand flying to cover his mouth, the other fisted tight in my hair.

I sucked him slow, deep, unhurried—worshipping him, letting every flick of my tongue, every hollow of my cheeks, tell him what I couldn’t say out loud. I wanted to ruin him, to break him open, to make him forget the world outside this room.

I eased him deeper, swallowing around him, feeling him tremble, fighting not to thrust. I wrapped one hand around the base, the other cupping his balls, rolling them gently, loving the way he fell apart beneath my touch.

“Tom—please—oh God—” The words broke apart, lost in the pressure building inside him. I looked up, watched him watching me, the way his lips parted in a silent cry, the way his chest rose and fell like he’d been running for his life.

I pulled back, letting his cock fall from my lips, slick and glistening. I kissed the inside of his thigh, then nuzzled lower, dragging my tongue over his balls, mouthing and sucking until he was writhing, all but begging. I tasted the crease where thigh met groin, the salt and heat of him, memorizing every detail.

“You’re shaking,” I murmured, voice rough, kissing back up to his hip, his stomach. “You’re so good for me. So beautiful.”

He made a sound—part laugh, part sob—and reached for me, trying to pull me up. I resisted, wanting to stay here forever, on my knees before him, worshipping every inch. But he tugged again, insistent, and I let him drag me up, our bodies pressed together, skin to skin at last.

He fumbled at my clothes, fingers clumsy with urgency, yanking at buttons, shoving my shirt off my shoulders. I shrugged it off, not caring where it landed, and let him undress me, let him see the scars, the ugly places, the proof of every failure and survival written on my skin.

He traced one scar with shaking fingers, then leaned in and kissed it, so gentle it nearly undid me. I groaned, catching his mouth with mine, devouring him, letting the need take over.

We pressed together, bare now, nothing between us but sweat and breath and the sharp, animal need to belong. I rolled him onto his back, sliding over him, every inch of me lined up against him. I ground our cocks together, hard and aching, and he moaned into my mouth, nails digging into my shoulders.

I kissed down his neck, his chest, licking a stripe between his ribs, biting softly, leaving marks. He writhed, hips lifting, desperate for more, for everything. I took his cock in my handagain, stroking him slow, twisting my wrist just right, thumbing the head until he was shaking, cursing, begging.

I wanted to make this last, to draw it out until neither of us could stand it. But the urgency, the danger, the fear of discovery was a living thing in the room, sharpening every touch, every sound. I spat into my hand, slicked his cock, then bent to take him into my mouth again, deeper this time, greedy, needing to feel him at the back of my throat.

I pulled back, letting Art’s cock slip from my mouth, glistening with spit. His whole body was shaking, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed deep red as he stared down at me—wild, a little desperate, barely holding on.

I wanted to see all of him. Needed it. I grabbed him by the hips—rougher now, less gentle, my need overpowering any caution—and hauled him toward the center of the narrow bed, ignoring the squeak of bedsprings. He tried to help, but his limbs were shaky, loose with pleasure, and I ended up manhandling him, rolling him onto his back, spreading his thighs wide until he was open and vulnerable beneath me. I braced his knees apart, hands tight around the insides of his thighs, holding him there, drinking in the sight.

Art’s breath stuttered, chest rising and falling in frantic little gasps. He was gorgeous like this—completely exposed, cock flushed and leaking against his belly, chest heaving, lips parted, sweat shining at his hairline. For a moment, I just looked at him, wanting to burn the image into memory—Arthur Pembroke, spread open for me, trembling and desperate and trusting me with every inch of himself.

“Fuck, Art,” I breathed, voice shaking with the force of it. “You’re beautiful.”