Chapter 21 Carry You #2
His breathing was going wrong. Too fast, too shallow, the gasping rhythm of panic rather than grief. I'd seen it before in soldiers who'd been pushed past their limits. Knew what it meant if I didn't intervene.
“Art. Look at me.” Pulled back enough to cup his face in my hands, force him to meet my eyes. “Breathe with me. In through your nose. Slow. That's it. Now out through your mouth. Good. Again.”
Walked him through it the way I'd walked terrified privates through it in the middle of artillery barrages. Kept my voice steady, my hands gentle, my breathing slow and deliberate so he had something to match.
Gradually, the panic eased. His breath evened out. The wild terror in his eyes faded to something more like exhaustion and despair.
“There you are,” I said softly. “There you are. I've got you.”
“I'm sorry.” His voice was wrecked, scraped raw. “I'm so sorry. I should have been more careful. Should have destroyed the notebook months ago. Should never have written any of it down.”
“Don't apologise. Not for this. Not for needing somewhere safe to put your thoughts.”
“But now Finch will know. About everything. About us.”
“Let him know.” The words came out fiercer than I intended. “Let him decode every bloody word. He can't prove anything from coded journal entries. Can't arrest us for feelings written in cipher.”
“He can investigate. Question people. Watch us even more closely.” Art's hands fisted in my jacket again. “And he already suspects. He asked me about you directly. About our relationship. About whether you were more than an escort.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I lied.” A broken laugh. “Told him you were just a friend. Just someone who'd been kind to me. He didn't believe it. Could see it in his face. But I tried. I tried to protect you.”
“You shouldn't have to protect me. That's supposed to be my job.”
“Your job is to escort a neurotic codebreaker between huts. Not to get tangled up in... whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between us. “Not to risk your career and your freedom for someone like me.”
“Someone like you.” I caught his hand, pressed it against my chest where my heart was hammering. “You mean someone brilliant? Someone brave? Someone who makes me feel like I might actually survive this war with something left inside worth saving?”
“Tom...”
“No. Listen to me.” Cupped his face again, made sure he was looking at me, really looking. “I didn't choose you because it was safe. I chose you because you're the first person who's ever made me want to choose anything at all. And I'm not going to let Finch or anyone else take that away.”
His eyes filled again, but this time the tears were different. Quieter. Less desperate.
“I'm scared,” he whispered. “I've never been this scared. Not even during the Blitz. Not even when the bombs were falling and I thought I might die.”
“I know. I'm scared too.”
“You don't look scared. You look like you're ready to fight the entire British Army single-handed.”
“That's because I am. If that's what it takes.”
He laughed, watery and weak, but real. “You can't fight an army, Tom.”
“Watch me.”
I kissed him then because I couldn’t not kiss him.
Because he was crying and scared and still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
Because the guard outside could come through that door at any moment and I needed him to know—needed to make absolutely certain he understood—that I was here, and I wasn’t leaving, and whatever came next, he wouldn’t face it alone.
The kiss started gentle. Careful. The way our first kiss had been, back at the chapel, when we were both still learning the shape of each other, still afraid to want too much.
I meant it to be reassurance, but Art made a sound against my mouth—something between a sob and a moan—and his hands came up, fisting in my hair, dragging me down to him, like he was drowning and I was the only thing keeping him afloat. Suddenly, gentle wasn’t enough anymore.
He pulled me down onto the narrow bed. I went willingly, half-sprawled on top of him, the length of his body pressed to mine through far too many layers.
His shirt was already half-open, skin warm beneath my hands where I found it, tracing the sharp ridges of his ribs, the flat plane of his stomach.
His breathing hitched at my touch—tiny, helpless gasps he tried to swallow, desperate not to make a sound that would carry through the thin walls.
The danger only made it sweeter. Sharper.
I wanted him ruined, desperate, undone beneath me—wanted to learn every secret his body held.
“Tom.” His voice was a ragged whisper. “The guard—”
“He can wait.” I pressed my mouth to the hollow of his throat, tasting salt, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. “Let him wait.”
“We shouldn’t—” His protest was barely a breath, his body already arching up to meet me.
“Do you want me to stop?” I asked, voice low, my lips moving against his skin.
His answer was to drag my mouth back to his, the kiss rougher this time, all teeth and hunger, months of longing bursting free. I let him take what he wanted, let him devour me, matching him stroke for stroke, breath for breath.
I slowed it down then, needing this to last—needing to memorize every second, every shiver, every gasp.
My hands slid under his open shirt, palms hungry for bare skin.
He was hot and trembling beneath me, his ribs fluttering under my touch, belly tight and quivering as I mapped him with careful reverence.
I traced the line of his sternum with my thumb, followed it down to the soft skin just above his waistband, then back up, brushing over his nipples—slow, deliberate circles that made him shudder, breath catching in his throat.
I pressed my thigh between his legs, felt the desperate, involuntary rut of his hips.
He was already hard, cock straining against his trousers, and the knowledge that I’d done that—brought him to the edge just by touching him—nearly undid me.
I pressed harder, grinding against him, our cocks rubbing together through too much fabric, friction sharp and maddening.
Art bit his lip, eyes squeezed shut, trying so hard to keep quiet, to be good, to follow the rules even as his body betrayed him. I wanted to wreck that restraint, wanted to see him fall apart, to hear what he sounded like when he let go.
I mouthed down his throat, tongue dragging along the fine, sensitive skin, tasting his sweat and desperation. My teeth grazed his collarbone, and he gasped—too loud, the sound muffled only by my mouth on his shoulder as I bit down, claiming him, marking him in places no one else would ever see.
“Let me see you,” I whispered, fingers working the last buttons of his shirt free.
He arched into me, letting me bare him, chest flushed and heaving, nipples pebbling in the cold air.
I ducked my head, sucking one into my mouth, flicking my tongue over the peak until he writhed, hands flying to my hair, anchoring me there.
“Tom, please—” The plea was barely audible, but I felt it everywhere.
“Shh.” I moved to the other nipple, biting, soothing, worshipping him.
My hands slid lower, teasing the line of his waistband, unfastening his belt with shaking fingers.
I wanted to take my time, to draw this out forever, but the urgency wouldn’t let me—every second a reminder that this could be stolen away, that discovery was always a heartbeat away.
I palmed his cock through his trousers, felt the heat and hardness, the way he jerked under my touch.
I squeezed gently, then harder, rubbing the heel of my hand along his length, watching him fall apart for me.
His hips lifted, chasing more friction, his breath coming in ragged little bursts he tried and failed to stifle.
My other hand slid down, cupping his balls through the fabric, rolling them gently, loving the way he trembled, the desperate twist of his fingers in my hair. I pressed my mouth to his stomach, licking a stripe down to his navel, tasting the salt of his skin, the sharp edge of his want.
“Tom, I—” His voice broke, trembling, too full of everything he’d been holding back.
I looked up, met his eyes, and saw everything—fear and need, hope and longing, the raw, aching desire to be seen, to be known, to be loved.
“You’re perfect,” I told him, voice thick. “Perfect for me. I want to make you feel good. Let me?”
He nodded, too overwhelmed for words, his body saying yes in every way that mattered.
I slid my hand inside his trousers, finally, skin on skin, wrapping around his cock. He was so hot, so hard, already leaking, and I stroked him slow, watching the way his eyes fluttered, the way his mouth fell open in a silent cry.
“Easy,” I whispered, thumbing the wet tip, teasing him with a gentleness that felt almost obscene. “Let me take care of you.”
His hips bucked helplessly, searching for more, but I kept my grip steady, squeezing just enough to draw out another gasp—then let go, moving my hands to his waistband, fumbling with the button and zip.
He lifted for me, so eager, so desperate, and I tugged his trousers down, careful not to rush, baring inch after inch of pale, trembling skin.
His cock slapped up against his belly, flushed dark, thick, already dripping.
I knelt beside the bed, pressing kisses along the jut of his hip, inhaling the scent of sweat and salt and something unmistakably him. His hand found my hair, not to guide or demand, just anchoring himself, grounding us both in the reality of this moment.
“Tom, you don’t have to—”
I looked up, locking eyes with him, letting him see the want that was burning through me. “I want to. Let me see you. Let me have you.”