Page 88 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“I want you,” he said, fierce and certain, his hands fisting in my shirt to pull me down. “I want all of it—all of you. Please, Tom.”

That undid me. I kissed him like I’d die if I stopped, mapped his body with greedy hands, pressed my palm between his legs and felt him buck into me, desperate and unashamed.

“Let me make you feel good,” I whispered into his hair, mouth pressed to his temple, voice cracking with how much I meant it. “Let me take care of you. Let me be yours, just for tonight.”

His answer was a strangled, “Yes. Please. God, yes,” and it broke something open inside me.

So I let go. Let myself want. Let myself worship.

Hands wandering, mouth greedy, hips grinding. Breathless confessions pressed to skin, filthy promises groaned into the hollow of his throat. I wanted him wrecked and safe, cherished and claimed, my name on his lips and my mark on his skin.

Art lay beneath me, flushed and trembling, and for a long moment he just stared — like he couldn’t believe I was real, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he moved too fast.

Then he reached for me.

Slowly. Hesitantly. As if requesting permission with every inch of his hand’s ascent.

“Let me…” he whispered, voice barely a breath.

I nodded, swallowed hard, and sat back onto my knees so he could touch me.

His fingers brushed my collar, tentative at first, then growing bolder when I didn’t flinch away. He smoothed the fabric of my shirt where it had twisted, then slid both hands up to my shoulders, palms warm even through the fabric. He tugged gently, drawing me closer until I bent over him again, our foreheads almost touching.

“Let me see you,” he murmured.

My throat went tight.

No one had asked that of me in years. Not like this. Not with reverence instead of curiosity. Not with hunger softened by awe.

I nodded again.

His hands moved carefully, almost shakily, pushing my suspenders off my shoulders. The elastic snapped lightly against my sides, and he sucked in a breath as if the small sound affected him. Then he reached for the first button of my shirt, undoing it with painful slowness — his fingertips brushing skin each time the fabric shifted.

I watched him. Because I couldn’t not. His concentration was devastating — brows drawn, lips parted, pupils huge behindfogged lenses. He handled each button like it was something precious. Like undressing me was a privilege.

By the time he reached the last button, my hands were shaking.

He slid the shirt open, fingers ghosting down my sternum, over the ridges of muscle, the dusting of hair. His breath hitched when the fabric fell away from my shoulders entirely. Cold air rushed over my skin — then his hands followed, warm, grounding, reverent.

“Oh,” he whispered, eyes going dark and soft all at once. “Tom…”

He touched me like I was a poem he’d only ever read in fragments. Like he’d spent months imagining the rest.

His fingertips traced my scars first — the thin ones, the jagged ones, the places where I still felt phantom burns or phantom pain. He didn’t ask about any of them. Didn’t need to. He just followed them like a map, breathing slowly, reverently.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his finger brushing one that carved faintly along my ribs.

“Not anymore.”

He nodded, eyes glassy with something tender and fierce. “You survived,” he murmured. “All of this — and you survived.”

My heart clenched.

His hands slid upward, palms smoothing over my chest. His thumbs brushed my nipples — a soft, accidental pass — and my breath punched out of me. He froze, eyes darting up to mine.

“Is that…” His voice trembled. “Is it all right?”

“Do it again.”