Chapter 17 Crimson Snow #7
He did, grinding down with abandon, losing himself in the rhythm, using me as much as I used him.
Our bodies were slick with sweat, the air thick with our breath, the slap of skin and the sound of our gasps filling the room.
I watched every shudder, every twitch, every desperate movement of his hands on his chest, twisting and teasing his nipples, making himself gasp and whine and beg.
I felt his body clench around me, fluttering, hot and desperate, and I squeezed the base of his cock, thumbing the sensitive place just beneath the head, wanting to keep him on the edge, wanting to see how much he could take.
“Good boy,” I growled, letting my praise wash over him, hoping he felt how much I meant it, how much I wanted every piece of him, every broken sound, every desperate plea.
He rode me harder, thighs trembling, hands never stopping their filthy dance over his chest, pulling, twisting, stroking his own skin, giving me a show I’d remember for the rest of my life.
I wanted more—needed it filthier, rawer, desperate.
“That’s it, beautiful,” I growled, letting my hands roam, one sliding up to grip his throat—not choking, just holding, letting him feel the claim, the weight of my need.
My other hand squeezed his hip, guiding him as he bounced on my cock, sweat and lube making everything slippery and obscene.
“You like that?” I taunted, fingers tightening just a little on his throat, the power of it making my blood sing. “You like being my good boy? Like showing me how much you can take?”
He nodded, wild and breathless, hips slamming down with every bounce, cock drooling precome onto my chest. “Yes—God, yes, Tom—please, don’t stop—want you to ruin me—”
“I’m going to, sweetheart,” I promised, voice shaking as I thrust up into him, matching his rhythm, fucking him harder from below. “Going to fuck you until you break. Want you to come for me, make a mess—want to see you cover me, Art. Want you filthy.”
He sobbed, hands moving from his chest to my mouth, pressing two trembling fingers against my lips. I opened for him, sucking them in, licking, biting, moaning around them as he gasped and rocked even harder, the sensation almost too much.
“Fuck, Tom—God—”
I pulled his fingers free, then spat on them, grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand down to his own ass, pushing his fingers against the place where I split him open, still buried deep inside him. “Touch yourself. Feel where I’m fucking you. Feel how wrecked you are for me.”
He whimpered, sliding his spit-slicked fingers down, circling the base of my cock where it stretched him, spreading his own cheeks as I thrust up, balls slapping against him, everything wet and noisy and raw.
“You want to feel me come inside you?” I panted, barely hanging on. “Want to be filled up, bred, dripping for me?”
“Please, Tom—please—need it—need you—” He was frantic, grinding down in desperate little circles, thighs trembling, hands on his ass, spreading himself open as I pounded into him.
I brought one hand up, slapped his cheek, then his chest, watching the way he gasped, the way his cock twitched, leaking more. “You’re filthy, Art. My filthy boy. Look at you, riding my cock, fucking yourself open for me, so needy—so perfect—”
He whimpered, hands clutching his own ass, using my cock and his own fingers to stretch himself wider, to take even more of me. I watched the way his hole fluttered around me, the way my cock disappeared inside him, the way his body shook as he fucked himself, completely lost.
“Touch your cock,” I ordered, voice guttural. “Stroke it for me. Want to watch you come.”
He obeyed, fist wrapping around his length, pumping in time with my thrusts, hips bucking, face twisted in bliss and desperation.
I slipped my thumb into his mouth, let him suck and bite, then dragged it down to tease his nipples, rubbing and twisting, making him shudder and gasp. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it—feel you clenching, milking me—”
“Tom—please, I—can’t—”
“Come for me, Art,” I demanded, voice wrecked, hips driving up into him, pace brutal. “Want you to cover me, want to feel you fall apart—”
He let out a broken sob, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as his orgasm slammed through him. His cock jerked, spurting thick ropes of come across my chest, my throat, my face, hot and sticky and endless. Some hit my lips, and I licked it up, tasting him, groaning at the salt and heat.
I grabbed his hips, held him down, fucked up into him mercilessly as his body seized around me, squeezing, milking my cock for all it was worth.
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, the salt 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.