Page 122 of The Words Beneath the Noise

He leaned forward, bending me in half, my knees pressed almost to my shoulders. He grabbed my ankle, lifting my foot to his mouth, and sucked two of my toes between his lips, tongue working, teeth grazing, wet and hot and obscene.

The sight of it—the feel of it—sent me wild. I squeezed my own nipples harder, pinched them until I nearly cried out, all the while grinding my hole down onto his cock, greedy for every inch.

Art let my toes go with a pop, then spat in my face, watching it drip down my cheek, my jaw. I grinned, feral, then spit back—hitting his mouth, his chin, the mess of it making him snarl, driving into me harder, faster, sweat flying from both our bodies.

We were a tangle of limbs and mouths and mess, the bed creaking under us, the sheets twisted and soaked. Art bent to suck my other toes, licking and mouthing, then let my legs fall wide again, kneeling between them, pounding into me with a brutal, relentless rhythm.

I thrashed beneath him, pinching my nipples, rubbing my cock against my own belly, sweat slicking every movement. The room was a sauna, air thick with heat and sex and the animal stink of two bodies desperate to devour each other.

Art grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head, then bent to lick a stripe up my arm, biting the inside of my elbow, sucking a mark onto my bicep. His mouth found my throat, my jaw, then my lips, tongues tangling, spit smeared everywhere, both of us gasping and cursing.

He broke the kiss just long enough to pant, “Tell me you want it—tell me you want me to ruin you.”

“God, yes,” I groaned, arching up, legs locked around his waist, “Want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk. Want to feel you for days. Ruin me, Art. Please.”

That undid him. He let go of my wrists, grabbed my hips, and drove into me with everything he had, sweat pouring down his chest, dripping onto mine. He bent to suck one of my nipples, biting down until I yelped, then soothed it with his tongue.

“Look at us,” he breathed, voice ragged, “sweat and spit and come everywhere. You’re fucking beautiful, Tom. So fucking good.”

He let my legs slide over his shoulders, folding me nearly in two, his cock hitting even deeper, the angle making me sob, the pleasure so sharp it almost hurt. He spat on his fingers, reached down to stroke my cock, matching his thrusts, working me closer and closer to the edge.

Sweat dripped from his hair, splashed onto my lips. I licked it away, tasting the salt, tastingus.

Art grinned down at me, feral and wild, and leaned in close, whispering, “Let go for me. Come for me, Tom. Want to see you fall apart.”

He drove into me, relentless, thumb circling the head of my cock, mouth hot on my toes, sweat running down his face onto mine, and I shattered—coming hard, spilling over his hand, chest, stomach, the world narrowing to nothing but sensation, sensation, sensation.

He followed, cock pulsing deep inside me, face twisted in pleasure, sweat and spit and come everywhere, both of us undone.

For a long time, we just breathed, bodies tangled, soaked and sticky and gloriously ruined.

“Never felt anything like that,” Art whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to mine.

“Me neither,” I said, and for once, it was the pure, perfect truth.

“We probably shouldn't have done that with a guard outside the door.”

“Probably not.”

“Do you regret it?”

I pulled back enough to look at him. Really look. At the tear tracks still visible on his cheeks. The swollen eyes. Theabsolutely wrecked expression that somehow made him more beautiful, not less.

“Not for a second,” I said. “Do you?”

“No.” He curled closer, head tucked under my chin. “I thought I would. Thought when it finally happened I'd feel guilty or scared or wrong. But I just feel...” He paused, searching. “Found. Like I've been lost my whole life and didn't know it until now.”

“That's how I feel too.”

We lay there in silence for a long moment, letting the reality of what we'd done settle around us. The implications. The risks. The fact that everything had changed and there was no going back.

I dressed carefully,made sure my uniform was immaculate, my bearing steady. Whatever game Finch wanted to play, I would meet it head-on.

The walk to the manor felt longer than usual. Snow crunched under my boots, each step measured and deliberate. I passed Hut X and thought of Art, confined to his room, probably lying awake wondering what was happening, what I was doing, whether today would be the day everything fell apart.

Finch's door was closed. I knocked twice, waited for the command to enter.

“Sergeant Hale. Sit.”