Page 92 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Look at you,” I whispered, kissing the head, flicking my tongue through the slit, gathering every drop. “So fucking beautiful. So good for me.”

He looked down, eyes wide and glassy, and the sight undid me all over again.

I took him into my mouth, slow and greedy, swallowing him down until I could taste his need, feel the pulse of blood and want on my tongue. I bobbed my head, sucking hard at the crown before dragging my mouth down, tongue swirling, nose buried in the dark hair at the base. He choked on a moan, hips rolling, hands gripping the bedsheets so tight his knuckles went white.

I pulled off, letting his cock fall against his belly with a wet smack, then spat again, letting it drizzle over the head and run down the shaft. I stroked him, slow and filthy, watching every muscle tense, every breath stutter.

“You taste so fucking good,” I muttered, pressing kisses along the shaft, nipping at the base, licking the length from root totip and back again. I mouthed at his balls, sucking one into my mouth while I stroked him with my fist, slow and relentless.

His thighs shook, whole body arching as I worshipped him—took my time, gave him everything he’d given me, every filthy bit of worship and devotion I could muster. I pressed my face to the crease of his thigh, inhaling deep, tongue darting out to taste the sweat and salt, nose buried in the scent of him.

He sobbed my name, hands tangling in my hair, hips rolling helplessly as I licked and sucked, working him up but never letting him tip over.

I pressed my thumb behind his balls, massaging gently, feeling the way his cock throbbed in my mouth. He whimpered, high and desperate, and I licked him again, slow and filthy, savoring the taste, the way he surrendered.

“Please, Tom,” he gasped, voice wrecked, “please, please?—”

“Not yet,” I said, pulling back just enough to kiss his hipbone, biting a mark there that would last for days. “You’re not coming until I say.”

He whimpered, so beautifully desperate, cock twitching against his belly, spit and precome painting him slick and shining.

I licked up every drop, letting my tongue linger, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his shaft, over his balls, back up to the head. I spit again, even messier, watching it ooze down the length, and stroked him with my fist, squeezing just enough to make him curse.

“You’re mine,” I whispered, voice dark and hoarse, “mine to worship, mine to ruin, mine to keep.”

I pressed another kiss to the crown, then sucked him deep, hollowing my cheeks, groaning around him until he was shaking, sweating, pleading for mercy.

But I didn’t give it.

Not yet.

I wanted him trembling, begging, wrung out and helpless beneath my hands and mouth. I wanted to remember every second of this—the way he tasted, the way he sounded, the way he looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer he’d never dared to speak.

And so I kept going—slow, hungry, worshipful—devouring him, drawing out every broken sound, every trembling breath, until we were both lost to the storm inside us, desperate for release but refusing to let go just yet.

I wanted this night to last forever.

But I wanted him even more.

When I finally let his cock slip from my mouth, spit-slick and flushed, Art collapsed back onto the bed, panting, trembling, eyes glassy with hunger. His hair was a wild mess, cheeks streaked with tears, lips red and swollen from biting back sounds no one had ever pulled from him before. He looked utterly wrecked, beautifully ruined, and I still hadn’t had enough.

I rose up over him, bracketing his hips with my knees, and grabbed his jaw, kissing him hard, letting him taste himself on my tongue. He moaned, arms winding around my shoulders, desperate to keep me close. I kissed him until we were both breathless, until the need pulsed between us like a live wire.

“Turn over,” I growled, voice dark and rough, barely human. He shivered at the command, eyes wide and pleading, but there was no hesitation—only trust, only need. He rolled to his stomach, then up onto his knees, settling on all fours, his back arched, his ass high and exposed.

The sight of him like that—obedient, desperate, offering himself up—nearly undid me. I pressed my palm between his shoulder blades, pushing him down just enough to make him feel owned, claimed, then ran my hands over the curve of his ass, spreading him open, baring every inch to the hungry light.

“Stay just like that,” I said, my voice a rough promise.

He whimpered, hips rolling, thighs quaking. I knelt behind him, drinking in the sight: his hole, pink and perfect, clenching around nothing, his cock hanging heavy between his legs, dripping onto the sheets. I wanted to take him apart, to ruin him with nothing but my mouth and hands, to make sure he never forgot this night for the rest of his life.

I lowered my head, breath hot against his skin, and licked a slow, deliberate stripe from his balls up to his hole, tasting salt and sweat and the musk that was all him. He jolted, a sound—half sob, half plea—ripping from his throat.

“Oh, fuck—Tom?—”

I grinned, hands spreading him wider, and dove in, licking over his hole, flattening my tongue and teasing the tight ring. He gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets, back arching as I rimmed him, slow and greedy, lapping and circling, letting spit drip down to make it messy, obscene.

I tongued him open, spit slicking his skin, and when he started to keen, hips rocking back in desperate little circles, I pressed a finger to his entrance, rubbing slow, lazy circles until he was panting, begging, hips rutting back against my hand.