Page 93 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“You want more?” I taunted, voice wrecked, thumb teasing the rim while my tongue never let up.

“Please—Tom—God, please, I need—need you?—”

I spat on his hole, watching it glisten, then slid a finger inside, slow and careful, letting him adjust to the stretch. He moaned, muscles fluttering around me, his whole body trembling as I worked him open.

I rimmed him as I fingered him, mouth and hand working in perfect tandem—my tongue teasing the sensitive skin, my finger crooking inside him, searching for every spot that made him gasp or cry out. When he started to relax, I added a second finger, fucking him open with gentle, steady pressure, mouth never leaving his skin.

He was a mess—shaking, begging, hips grinding down onto my hand, every sound he made going straight to my cock. I stroked his thighs, squeezed his hips, pressed open-mouthed kisses everywhere I could reach, determined to worship every inch.

“You’re perfect like this,” I murmured, voice rough, licking a stripe up his spine before leaning in to bite his shoulder, gentle but claiming. “So fucking good for me.”

He whimpered, body shaking, hole fluttering around my fingers as I fucked him slow, letting him feel every inch, every drag and twist. My tongue darted down, licking over my fingers, tasting the mix of spit and sweat, the heat and musk that made my head spin.

Then I shifted, bent lower, and took his cock in my mouth from behind, sucking him deep as my fingers worked him open, the angle making it filthy, almost desperate. He wailed, hands scrabbling for purchase, knees digging into the sheets.

“God—Tom—oh, God—” He was falling apart, every muscle locked and trembling, voice breaking on my name.

I bobbed my head, sucking him slow and deep, spit and precome slicking his cock as my tongue flicked over the head, tasting the salt, savoring every pulse. My fingers never stopped moving, curling, stroking, drawing every broken sound from his lips.

I wanted him to know he was safe, wanted, worshipped. I wanted to ruin him with pleasure, make him forget the world outside, the war, the danger—make him exist only here, in this room, in my hands, in my mouth.

I pulled off just long enough to whisper, “You’re mine, Art. Mine to worship. Mine to ruin.”

He sobbed, body shaking, hips rolling back onto my hand, desperate for more.

I spread his cheeks wider, licked over his hole again, spit dripping down, then fucked him with my tongue, fingers pumping slow and steady, thumb circling his rim in time with every thrust. He was panting, moaning, the sounds spilling out of him, shameless and wild.

His cock was leaking, hard and flushed, twitching every time my fingers brushed his sweet spot. I stroked him, teased the head with my tongue, sucked him deep, then pulled back to admire the wreck of him—sweat-soaked, trembling, begging for more.

I spat again, slicking my fingers, working him open, making sure he felt every inch, every push, every twist. My other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow, just enough to keep him on the edge.

I couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t stop worshipping, couldn’t stop tasting, couldn’t stop taking him apart.

At some point, I realized I was so hard I hurt, cock leaking against my thigh, desperate for friction. With one hand still working him open, I reached down, wrapping my fist around myself, squeezing tight, groaning low as I started to stroke—slow at first, just enough to take the edge off the hunger, to keep from losing control completely.

Art must have heard the change in my breathing, felt the shift in my body, because he looked back over his shoulder, eyes wild and desperate and so, so hungry. “Tom,” he whispered, voice raw. “Want you. Please. Let me?—”

I leaned forward, bracing my weight with one arm, and guided my cock up, dragging the swollen head across his ass, leaving a slick trail of precome along the curve of his skin. He gasped, the sound breaking, fingers clawing at the sheets as I slid my cock up and down his crack, pressing the head to his hole without pushing in, teasing him, tormenting us both.

“Fuck, you feel good,” I muttered, stroking myself, smearing spit and precome along my length, then slapping my cock against his cheeks, letting the wet smack echo in the small room. Each strike made him jolt, whimper, arch back into me, as if begging for more.

He shuddered, back arched, offering himself up without shame, body singing with want.

I wanted it to be good for him—better than anything else, better than all the shame and secrecy the world tried to force on us. I wanted him to remember this night for the rest of his life.

I glanced around, mind racing. I reached for the battered tin of Vaseline.

I dipped my fingers in, the slick cool and familiar, then spread it liberally over my cock, stroking until I was shining, slippery, aching with need. I smeared more between his cheeks, rubbing slow, careful circles over his rim, working it inside with my fingers, making sure he was ready, making sure I could take him the way he deserved—rough, merciless, but never careless.

Art moaned, pressing back into my touch, greedy for every sensation. “Please, Tom,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Don’t be gentle. Please, I want—want you to ruin me.”

Something in me snapped at that.

I let go of restraint, grabbed his hair—fisting it at the nape, tugging his head back so I could see his face, the desperation, the trust, the raw want burning in his eyes.

“You want it rough?” I growled, letting him feel the threat, the promise in my voice. “You want me to fuck you like I own you?”

“Yes,” he whimpered. “God, yes. Please. I need it—I need you?—”