Page 120 of The Words Beneath the Noise
He tried to say something—maybe a plea, maybe my name—but it came out as a wrecked whimper. I leaned in, burying my face between his thighs, inhaling the sharp, earthy scent ofhim, sweat and salt and something that was just him. My stubble scratched his skin, my lips brushed the crease where thigh met groin, and he writhed, hands flying to fist in the sheets, his whole body arching up for more.
I mouthed at his balls, sucked one into my mouth, tongue swirling slow, deliberate circles that made him moan, low and ragged. My hands gripped his thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft, trembling flesh, keeping him wide and helpless. I licked up, traced the vein along the underside of his cock, then took him deep again, swallowing as much as I could, letting him feel the depth of my hunger.
My cheeks hollowed as I sucked, spit running down my chin, my face hot and wet. I pulled off just enough to drag my tongue over the head, lapping up the slick, salty pre-come. Every time I went down, I took him deeper, forcing myself to relax, to open up for him, letting him fill my mouth, letting him take over.
Art was a mess above me—writhing, gasping, one arm flung over his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to be seen, the other digging desperate furrows into the sheets. His hips jerked, thighs trembling where I pinned them. I loved it, loved feeling the power shift—him undone, me on my knees, worshipping him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I sucked harder, faster, twisting my wrist just so as I stroked what my mouth couldn’t take, my other hand splayed wide across his belly to keep him still. I let myself get sloppy, spit leaking from the corners of my mouth, dripping down my chin onto his skin. Sweat beaded at my temples, heat prickling down my spine. Every sound he made went straight to my cock, throbbing hard against the mattress.
“Tom, I—I can’t—” His voice was a broken thing, choked and desperate.
“Yes, you can.” My words were muffled, mouth full of him, but he understood. I wanted to ruin him, wanted to see how much he could take, how far he’d let me go.
I slid my hands under his thighs, lifting his hips, tilting him up so I could take him deeper. My shoulders pressed his knees even wider apart, spread eagle on the sheets. The position was filthy, raw, everything I’d dreamed about in stolen, guilty moments. I looked up and met his eyes—wide, blown, nearly black with want—and held his gaze as I swallowed him down again, sucking hard, cheeks slick with spit and sweat.
He whimpered, the sound sharp and helpless, and I felt him start to lose control, hips thrusting up despite himself. I didn’t stop him. I let him fuck into my mouth, let him take what he needed, choking a little on the depth, spit dripping down my neck, my jaw aching. My hands gripped his thighs, holding him steady, forcing him to stay open for me.
He came apart for me, body taut and shaking, and as the tremors faded, I eased off, pressing a final kiss to the slick head of his cock. I started to move up his body, meaning to gather him in, to hold him while his breathing slowed. But Art had other ideas. Even boneless and spent, he reached for me with surprising strength, hauling me up with both hands, desperate, eyes burning with something wild and electric.
“Come here,” he whispered, and it was less a plea than a command—voice hoarse, wrecked, but so sure, so full of want I could feel it in my bones.
He dragged me up his body, urgent hands fumbling at my hips, shoving me until I was kneeling astride his chest, my cock heavy and flushed, leaking against his skin. The bed creaked beneath us, sheets tangled around our legs, the taste of him still in my mouth, the air thick with sex and sweat and fear.
“Art—” I started, but he cut me off with a bruising kiss, dragging me down until our mouths crashed together, histongue greedy and searching, tasting himself on my lips. He moaned, sucking at my tongue, nipping at my bottom lip, then pulled back, breathing hard, eyes black with hunger.
“I want you,” he said, voice trembling but clear. “Let me—let me have you.”
I couldn’t have said no if I tried. I braced myself above him, cock brushing his collarbone, and he wasted no time—lurching up, mouth open, swallowing me down with the same desperation I’d just poured into him. The sight nearly undid me: Art, still sprawled on his back, lips stretched wide around my cock, hands locked around my thighs, pinning me in place.
He sucked hard, messy, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth, sliding down his chin, wetting my skin. He couldn’t take me deep, not at this angle, but he didn’t seem to care—fisting me at the base, twisting his wrist, mouthing the head, tongue swirling and teasing until I was shaking above him, fighting not to lose control.
Every sound he made—wet, greedy, shameless—went straight to my gut, twisting me up, making me ache for him in ways I hadn’t known I could. I threaded my fingers into his hair, not guiding, just holding on, needing the anchor as much as he did.
Then, without warning, he let my cock slip free and reached lower, fingers wrapping around the curve of my arse, squeezing hard. He looked up at me, eyes wide and hungry, lips slick with spit and come.
“Turn around,” he ordered, voice rough, breath hot against my skin. “I want to taste you. All of you.”
I hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but he didn’t wait—just manhandled me, rolling me over with a strength that surprised us both, dragging me down so I was straddling his face, knees braced on either side of his head, cock bobbing in front of his mouth.
He didn’t waste time. His hands spread me open, thumbs digging into my arse, pulling me down until I was almost sitting on his face. I gasped, the suddenness of it making me dizzy, the danger of the position—the door, the guard, the world outside—sharpening everything until my skin felt too tight.
Art buried his face between my cheeks, licking a stripe over my hole, tongue hot and insistent. The first touch made me jolt, hips bucking, a raw moan torn from my throat.
“Fuck—Art—” I choked out, but he just growled low, hands holding me steady, tongue working me open, relentless, hungry.
He licked me like he was starving, dragging slow, wet circles around my rim, teasing, coaxing, then plunging his tongue inside, fucking me with his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming—intimate, filthy, perfect. I ground down, unable to help myself, chasing the friction, lost in the wet heat of him.
One of his hands slid down, fingers tracing the sensitive skin behind my balls, then lower, pressing, circling, until I was gasping, shuddering, falling apart. He pressed a finger against my hole, spit-slick and insistent, easing inside with agonizing slowness.
I whimpered, thighs shaking, hands braced against the wall, barely able to hold myself up. He fucked me with his finger, tongue lapping alongside, opening me up, making me feel owned and adored and utterly ruined.
My cock was leaking, aching, untouched, bobbing over his mouth. He lifted his head, sucking the head between his lips, tongue swirling, then let go to focus on my hole again, adding a second finger, scissoring me open, stretching me, making me gasp.
“You’re—God, Tom, you’re perfect,” he mumbled, voice muffled against my skin. “Let me make you feel good.”
He ate me out with a fervor I’d never experienced, fingers working me open, tongue everywhere, spit slicking everything.I was a mess above him, sweat running down my back, face flushed, the muscles in my thighs trembling with the effort to stay upright.
“Don’t stop,” I begged, and he didn’t—he just pressed deeper, fingers curling, hitting that spot inside me that made me see stars. I nearly sobbed, grinding down, desperate for more, for everything.