Page 89 of The Words Beneath the Noise

He did.

Hell, I nearly came undone right there.

His thumb circled, slow, experimental, and I groaned — low, involuntary, sinful. Heat shot through me. My cock throbbedagainst my trousers. Art looked stunned by the reaction, like he’d unlocked something sacred.

He leaned in, breath brushing my chest, and kissed the place just beside my nipple — gentle at first, then firmer when he felt the way I shuddered.

“Christ, Art…”

He made a small, desperate sound and kept going — lips tracing the ridge of my pec, tongue flicking lightly over one nipple before his mouth closed around it, careful but eager. My hand flew to the back of his head, not to push, but to anchor myself. He moaned at the contact — the vibration rippling through me so sharply I gasped.

He dragged his mouth lower, then back up, then across to the other side, lavishing the same slow, aching attention on the other nipple until my thighs trembled with the effort not to grind down on him.

When he finally pulled back, both of us panting, he pushed himself up a little, hands sliding under my arms — and before I could ask what he was doing, he lifted my arm gently and pressed his face into the warm skin of my underarm.

The breath I released was more a groan than anything human.

He inhaled, slow and shaky, eyes fluttering shut like the scent of me alone undid him. His lips brushed the sensitive skin there — not a kiss, more like a confession.

“God, Tom,” he whispered into my skin. “You’re… you’re beautiful.”

No one had ever said that about me. Not like this. Not while touching me like I was something holy.

My chest tightened, breath catching as he kept exploring — mouth trailing along my inner arm, tongue tracing veins, teeth grazing the soft flesh just beneath my bicep. Every touch was deliberate. Worshipful. Filthy in its tenderness.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Could only feel — his mouth, his hands, the devastating way he treated my body like it was worth knowing.

I tugged him back up, kissing him fiercely, swallowing the moan he let out as my tongue slid into his mouth. He was shaking now — from desire, from emotion, from the sheer weight of what we were doing.

“Art,” I rasped, voice shaking. “If you keep touching me like that, I won’t last.”

“Don’t go easy on me,” he said, voice so low it almost didn’t make it across the small space between us. “Please, Tom. Don’t… don’t treat me like I’m made of glass. I want all of you. Give me everything you’ve got.”

Something in me broke at that. All my careful restraint, all my good intentions. Gone. There was only the want, and the way he looked up at me—vulnerable, trusting, begging to be undone.

“Yeah?” I rasped. “You sure about that?”

He nodded, fierce and trembling. “I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That undid me.

“Good,” I growled, and leaned in to kiss him, hard—nothing gentle now, just raw hunger and gratitude, pouring everything I felt into the press of my mouth against his. He kissed me back like he’d waited a lifetime for this, teeth clashing, breath coming ragged, hands winding in my hair.

I shifted, guiding him gently onto his back, and propped myself above him. My hands found his chest, palms splayed, feeling the frantic thump of his heart. His cardigan was bunched and crooked, his shirt half-untucked, and I couldn’t stand it a second longer.

“Your turn,” I whispered, and slid my hands up, pushing his cardigan off his shoulders, then working one button at a time—agonizingly slow, drawing it out, giving him the chance to stop me if he wanted.

He didn’t. He watched me, wide-eyed, lips parted, chest heaving with every shallow breath.

When I reached the last button, I eased his shirt apart, revealing pale skin, dusted with freckles and the faintest hint of golden hair. He shivered when the air hit him, but he didn’t look away—not from me, not from the hunger in my eyes.

“Fuck, Art…” I breathed, taking him in—every inch, every trembling line. “You’re beautiful.”

His cheeks flushed. “Show me.”