Page 87 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Yeah?” I couldn't stop kissing him long enough to form proper sentences. His jaw. His neck. The soft skin behind his ear that made him whimper. “That an invitation?”

“It's a statement of fact that happens to be relevant to our current situation.”

I laughed. Actually laughed, chest light in a way it hadn't been in years. “Lead the way, then.”

We stumbled out of the bathroom together, hands not quite letting go, sneaking through corridors we both knew by heart. Past the library. Past Finch's office, dark and empty. Up the narrow stairs to Art's attic room where snow was already piling on the skylight.

He fumbled with the door. I pressed up behind him, mouth on his neck, and felt him shudder.

“That's not helping,” he managed.

“Wasn't trying to help.”

The door finally gave. We tumbled through together, and Art kicked it shut behind us, and then there was nothing but the two of us and the quiet and the snow falling soft against the glass above.

He looked at me in the dim light. Uncertain now that we'd stopped moving. “I should warn you. I've never... this isn't something I've...”

“I know.” I cradled his face in my hands. “We'll figure it out together.”

“What if I do it wrong? What if I'm too much or not enough or?—”

I kissed him quiet. Gentle this time. Patient.

“You're exactly right,” I said against his mouth. “You're bona. And I want you. All of you. Even the parts you think are too much.”

His breath caught. Something in his expression shifted, wonder replacing fear.

“Then have me,” he whispered. “Please. Have all of me.”

So I did.

He clung to me, glasses askew, mouth hungry and wet beneath mine. I kissed him until he made that desperate sound again—the one I wanted to memorize, the one I’d chase through hell just to hear once more. My hands slid into his hair, dragging him closer, fingers carding through the soft strands, palms cradling the shape of his skull.

“God, Art,” I breathed against his lips, my voice rough with want. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Show me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Please. I want—I need?—”

I pressed my body to his, letting him feel exactly what he did to me. My cock throbbed, straining uselessly against wool, every inch of me desperate to get closer. I rocked against him, slow and filthy, grinding him back against the door, swallowing every gasp, every whimper.

His hands skated over my back, frantic and searching, sliding beneath my coat and jacket, bunching my shirt in his fists. His touch burned through the fabric, lighting me up from the inside. I wanted more—more contact, more skin, more of him everywhere.

I pulled back just enough to see him. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with want. I wanted to tell him he was beautiful, wanted to worship him with every filthy word and reverent touch, but all that came out was his name, ragged and raw.

He pulled me down into another kiss, deep and messy, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. He tasted like longing, like every secret I’d never dared say out loud. I pressed kisses to his jaw, his cheekbones, the hollow beneath his ear, loving the way he shivered every time my mouth found new territory.

I let my hands wander, tracing his collar, the line of his throat, thumbs pressing gently over the flutter of his pulse. I tugged his scarf loose and mouthed along the exposed skin, leaving damp trails, biting down just hard enough to make him gasp and arch into me.

His hips never stopped moving, rolling against mine, chasing friction. My hand found his waist, sliding up under his cardigan, heat radiating through thin cotton. I flattened my palm against his belly, feeling it jump beneath my touch, then drifted higher, mapping his ribs, learning the shape of him.

He grabbed at me with greedy hands, tracing every muscle, fingers digging into my sides, my back, everywhere he could reach. I wanted to let him take, to let himownme, but I couldn’tstop touching, couldn’t stop devouring. I wanted him ruined, undone, a trembling mess in my arms.

We stumbled to the bed, collapsing in a tangle of limbs, still half-dressed, every movement slow and hungry and desperate. I rolled him beneath me, hips pinning him, grinding down so he could feel the weight, the promise in every flex of muscle, every throb of need.

His hands slid under my shirt, fingers icy at first, then blazing hot as they traced the scars on my back, my ribs. The sensation was almost too much—too intimate, too real—but I let him touch, let him learn, let him see the map of old wounds and want that made me.

He tugged me down, mouths crashing together again, our bodies rutting slow and filthy through layers, every movement stoking the fire higher. My breath shuddered against his lips, my hands finding every place he trembled and lingering there, savoring every soft, broken sound.

“Tell me you want this,” I rasped, voice shaking as I held myself just above him, searching his eyes for any flicker of doubt.