Page 90 of The Words Beneath the Noise

So I did.

I pressed my mouth to the hollow of his throat, licking a slow line up to his jaw, then down again, savoring the taste of him. My hands skated across his chest, thumbing over his nipples—watching the way he gasped, the way his back arched for me, needy and unashamed.

I mouthed over one nipple, teasing it with my tongue until it peaked under my attention, then bit down gently, just enough to make him moan. He jerked, fingers flying to my shoulders, not to push me away but to anchor himself, to hold on.

“God, Tom—” he breathed, voice shaking.

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s it. Let me hear you.”

I kissed a trail down his chest, lavishing every inch with lips and tongue and teeth, mapping the sharp cut of his ribs, the hollow beneath his pecs. My hands roamed everywhere—palming the heat of his waist, tracing the line of his hips, pressing into every shiver, every quake, every desperate roll of his body beneath mine.

I couldn’t get enough.

I wanted to worship him—wanted him ruined, wanted him to feel how perfect he was. I sucked a mark into the soft skin just above his heart, and he gasped, hips bucking up against me. Ipressed my nose to his skin and inhaled, deep and greedy, letting his scent fill my lungs.

I kissed under his arm, right at the tender spot, and felt him shudder all over, the sound he made barely more than a whine. My mouth found the spot just beneath his ribs, and I nipped, then soothed with my tongue.

He was beautiful—everywhere. Scattered freckles, the faint rise and fall of bone and muscle, the delicate shivers every time my hands found something new.

I came back up, kissing him deep and slow, chest pressed to chest, skin slick and burning with want. His hands were in my hair, on my shoulders, clutching at me like I was the only thing keeping him afloat.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured into his mouth. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t stop,” he pleaded, voice already wrecked. “Please, Tom. Don’t stop. I need you?—”

“You have me,” I said, and I meant it. For this night, for as long as he wanted.

I pressed my forehead to his, letting our breaths mingle, letting him feel the weight of me, skin to skin, heart pounding wild. My trousers were painfully tight, cock aching for relief, and I could see the question—fear and want tangled—in Art’s eyes as he looked down, then back at me.

“Go on,” I murmured, voice rough. “Take them off. I want you to.”

His hands shook as he slid them to my waist, fingers fumbling with the button, then the zip—so careful, like he was undressing something sacred. I lifted my hips, let him tug my trousers down, slow and reverent, the scrape of fabric over my thighs sending another jolt of heat through me. My cock strained hard against my underwear, a dark patch of wetness already staining the front.

Art stared, eyes wide and glassy. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling with each shallow gasp. For a moment he just looked—hungry, awestruck, uncertain—and then he leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed the damp cotton, close enough I could feel the tremble in his hands.

“God, Tom…” His voice was a hush, barely sound at all.

I cupped the back of his head, urging him closer. “Go on,” I whispered. “Take what you want.”

He obeyed, pressing his face against the front of my underwear, inhaling deep, greedy, needy. The sensation—the heat of his breath, the soft drag of his nose, the stuttered gasp as he mouthed against the cotton—made my whole body jolt, a filthy thrill shooting through my core.

He dragged his nose along the length of my cock, nuzzling, breathing me in like he’d go mad without it. Then his mouth pressed open over the thickest part, tongue wetting the cotton, mouthing at the head through fabric, making me curse, hips jerking involuntarily.

I let him worship—let him have all of it, every desperate sound, every shudder, every curse ripped from my throat. His hands smoothed over my thighs, up to my hips, holding me steady as he nuzzled, licked, and sucked at the wet spot, moaning low in his chest like he was drunk on it.

“Fuck, Art,” I groaned, voice breaking. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

He looked up, cheeks flushed, lips parted, glasses askew. “I want to ruin you,” he whispered. “I want you to remember this. I want you to remember how much I want you—how much I need you.”

He dove back in, nose buried, tongue dragging along the seam, teasing the outline of my cock, tasting the mess I was making for him. I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the filthy litany falling from my lips, couldn’t stop the way my handstangled in his hair, desperate to hold him there, to never let him go.

He mouthed at my balls through the thin cotton, sucked the tip where it pressed against the fabric, soaked me through with his devotion. The worship in every movement—slow, hungry, reverent—wrecked me more than anything I’d ever felt.

I was his, undone, trembling, held together only by the trembling grip of his hands and the way he breathed me in, like I was something holy.

Then, with a final, shaky exhale, Art eased back just enough to hook his fingers under the waistband of my underwear. He glanced up—seeking permission, asking with nothing but his eyes. I managed a nod, throat tight, unable to find words when every nerve in my body was sparking.

He peeled my underwear down, slow as confession, baring me inch by inch. The cold air made me shiver, but the way he looked at me—utterly spellbound, lips parted, breath hitching—warmed me from the inside out. My cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, and for a moment he just stared, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, gaze moving over me with almost scholarly intent.