Page 97 of The Words Beneath the Noise

That was all it took—his tight, trembling heat, the sight of him coming, the taste of his spend on my tongue. I snapped, hips jerking as I spilled inside him, thick and hot, filling him up, grinding deep as I emptied myself, pulse after pulse, unable to stop.

“Fuck, fuck, Art—take it, take all of it—” I groaned, hips grinding, making sure he felt every drop, making sure I bred him just like he wanted.

He whimpered, collapsing against my chest, cock still twitching, both of us shaking, gasping for air.

We stayed like that for a moment—him sprawled over me, my cock still buried deep inside, both of us covered in his come, sweat, and spit, the scent of sex heavy in the air.

But I wasn’t done.

With a groan, I lifted him gently, letting my cock slip free, watching as my own seed dripped out of his ruined hole, running down his thighs, messy and obscene.

“Stay just like that,” I breathed, rolling him onto his knees, spreading his cheeks to watch the come leak out, sticky and white and so, so filthy.

I dove in, tongue dragging through the mess, licking up my own spend, groaning at the taste of us mixed together, thesalt and musk and sharpness of it. Art sobbed, shuddering, hands clutching at the sheets as I ate him out, cleaning him, worshipping him, tongue fucking him until he whined and trembled and begged for mercy.

“Fuck, Tom—please—too much?—”

I only moaned in response, not stopping until I’d cleaned every drop, until he was shaking and boneless, ruined and worshipped.

Then, finally, I pulled him down, wrapped him in my arms, and let him collapse against me, both of us still a mess.

He blinked up at me, face shining with sweat and tears and bliss, and leaned in, licking the come from my lips, from my chin, cleaning me up with slow, reverent strokes of his tongue.

We kissed, filthy and slow, tasting each other, sharing every last drop, until the need faded to a gentle ache, and all that was left was the warmth of bodies tangled together, breath soft and steady in the dark.

For a while, we just lay there—holding each other, drifting in the aftermath, the world outside silent, forgotten.

“Stay,” he whispered.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Outside, snow kept falling. Below, carols had probably ended, people returning to their billets to sleep or celebrate in their own ways. But up here in Art's attic room, the world had narrowed to just us. Warm skin. Shared breath. The profound relief of finally, finally being held.

I pressed my lips to his hair. Felt him relax against me degree by degree. Watched his breathing even out into something approaching sleep.

Snow tapped against the skylight above us. Soft. Rhythmic. Like the world was giving us its blessing, or at least agreeing to look away.

EIGHTEEN

CHRISTMAS

ART

Pale winter light crept through the skylight, turning frost patterns into silver lace against glass.

Christmas morning. First conscious thought, followed immediately by the second: Tom was in my bed.

Actually in my bed. Warm and solid and real, one arm thrown across my waist, face pressed into my shoulder, breathing deep and even in sleep. Real. This was real. Last night had happened, and the evidence was currently using me as a pillow and radiating heat like a furnace.

My brain, unhelpful as always, immediately spiraled into panic.

What had we done? What did this mean? Was this just Christmas Eve madness, two lonely men seeking comfort in the dark? Would he wake up and regret everything, realize he'd made a catastrophic mistake with someone odd and difficult and fundamentally wrong?

My hands found the edge of the blanket, fingers working the fabric in rapid repetition. Stim. Ground. Breathe. Except breathing was difficult when Tom's weight across my chest wasboth anchor and cage, when the scent of him was everywhere, when evidence of last night was written on my skin in marks I could feel but not see.