Chapter 17 Crimson Snow #3
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.”
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. I pressed 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 hands tangled 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.
He leaned in, close enough for his breath to ghost over the slick head, close enough for me to see the tremble in his hands.
He pressed his nose to the base, inhaled deeply, and made a sound so raw it sent heat flashing down my spine.
He dragged his mouth along my length, lips parted, tongue tracing the vein with reverence, not rushing—savoring, mapping, learning what every inch of me tasted like.
“Christ, Art…” I managed, voice cracking, hips twitching as he pressed open-mouthed kisses up the shaft, tongue swirling at the crown before pulling back to look at me—cheeks flushed, eyes gone wild with hunger.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice barely there, thick with awe.
“All of it,” I choked out. “God, please. Don’t stop. I need you.”