Chapter 21 Carry You #3
He nodded, just once, biting his lip, his chest heaving with each breath. I slid his trousers all the way off, then reached for his underwear, dragging them down slow, baring him fully at last. He was beautiful—every inch of him, every tremor, every sharp angle and soft hollow, every mark and scar.
“God, you’re perfect,” I breathed, almost reverent. I pressed my mouth to the inside of his thigh, open-mouthed kisses, tongue dragging over the shivery skin there, feeling the muscles tense and jump beneath me. His scent was overwhelming, dizzying—need and fear and trust all tangled up together.
He reached for me, fingers trembling, as if he needed to touch something solid, something real.
I took his hand, lacing our fingers together, then leaned in and buried my face against his cock, just breathing him in.
He whimpered, hips twitching, but I held him still, mouthing along the length of him, tasting salt and skin and the sharpness of his desire.
“Please—” His voice was barely more than a breath, pleading, desperate.
I looked up again, saw the way his eyes shone—so open, so raw, so his—and then I let myself have him.
I pressed a slow, careful kiss to the tip of his cock, then dragged my tongue down the length, tracing the vein with aching slowness.
I licked and sucked, savoring every reaction, every ragged gasp, every helpless sound he tried to swallow.
When I took him into my mouth, he sobbed, one hand flying to cover his mouth, the other fisted tight in my hair.
I sucked him slow, deep, unhurried—worshipping him, letting every flick of my tongue, every hollow of my cheeks, tell him what I couldn’t say out loud. I wanted to ruin him, to break him open, to make him forget the world outside this room.
I eased him deeper, swallowing around him, feeling him tremble, fighting not to thrust. I wrapped one hand around the base, the other cupping his balls, rolling them gently, loving the way he fell apart beneath my touch.
“Tom—please—oh God—” The words broke apart, lost in the pressure building inside him. I looked up, watched him watching me, the way his lips parted in a silent cry, the way his chest rose and fell like he’d been running for his life.
I pulled back, letting his cock fall from my lips, slick and glistening.
I kissed the inside of his thigh, then nuzzled lower, dragging my tongue over his balls, mouthing and sucking until he was writhing, all but begging.
I tasted the crease where thigh met groin, the salt and heat of him, memorizing every detail.
“You’re shaking,” I murmured, voice rough, kissing back up to his hip, his stomach. “You’re so good for me. So beautiful.”
He made a sound—part laugh, part sob—and reached for me, trying to pull me up. I resisted, wanting to stay here forever, on my knees before him, worshipping every inch. But he tugged again, insistent, and I let him drag me up, our bodies pressed together, skin to skin at last.
He fumbled at my clothes, fingers clumsy with urgency, yanking at buttons, shoving my shirt off my shoulders. I shrugged it off, not caring where it landed, and let him undress me, let him see the scars, the ugly places, the proof of every failure and survival written on my skin.
He traced one scar with shaking fingers, then leaned in and kissed it, so gentle it nearly undid me. I groaned, catching his mouth with mine, devouring him, letting the need take over.
We pressed together, bare now, nothing between us but sweat and breath and the sharp, animal need to belong.
I rolled him onto his back, sliding over him, every inch of me lined up against him.
I ground our cocks together, hard and aching, and he moaned into my mouth, nails digging into my shoulders.
I kissed down his neck, his chest, licking a stripe between his ribs, biting softly, leaving marks.
He writhed, hips lifting, desperate for more, for everything.
I took his cock in my hand again, stroking him slow, twisting my wrist just right, thumbing the head until he was shaking, cursing, begging.
I wanted to make this last, to draw it out until neither of us could stand it.
But the urgency, the danger, the fear of discovery was a living thing in the room, sharpening every touch, every sound.
I spat into my hand, slicked his cock, then bent to take him into my mouth again, deeper this time, greedy, needing to feel him at the back of my throat.
I pulled back, letting Art’s cock slip from my mouth, glistening with spit. His whole body was shaking, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed deep red as he stared down at me—wild, a little desperate, barely holding on.
I wanted to see all of him. Needed it. I grabbed him by the hips—rougher now, less gentle, my need overpowering any caution—and hauled him toward the center of the narrow bed, ignoring the squeak of bedsprings.
He tried to help, but his limbs were shaky, loose with pleasure, and I ended up manhandling him, rolling him onto his back, spreading his thighs wide until he was open and vulnerable beneath me.
I braced his knees apart, hands tight around the insides of his thighs, holding him there, drinking in the sight.
Art’s breath stuttered, chest rising and falling in frantic little gasps.
He was gorgeous like this—completely exposed, cock flushed and leaking against his belly, chest heaving, lips parted, sweat shining at his hairline.
For a moment, I just looked at him, wanting to burn the image into memory—Arthur Pembroke, spread open for me, trembling and desperate and trusting me with every inch of himself.
“Fuck, Art,” I breathed, voice shaking with the force of it. “You’re beautiful.”
He tried to say something—maybe a plea, maybe my name—but it came out as a wrecked whimper.
I leaned in, burying my face between his thighs, inhaling the sharp, earthy scent of him, sweat and salt and something that was just him.
My stubble scratched his skin, my lips brushed the crease where thigh met groin, and he writhed, hands flying to fist in the sheets, his whole body arching up for more.
I mouthed at his balls, sucked one into my mouth, tongue swirling slow, deliberate circles that made him moan, low and ragged.
My hands gripped his thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft, trembling flesh, keeping him wide and helpless.
I licked up, traced the vein along the underside of his cock, then took him deep again, swallowing as much as I could, letting him feel the depth of my hunger.
My cheeks hollowed as I sucked, spit running down my chin, my face hot and wet.
I pulled off just enough to drag my tongue over the head, lapping up the slick, salty pre-come.
Every time I went down, I took him deeper, forcing myself to relax, to open up for him, letting him fill my mouth, letting him take over.
Art was a mess above me—writhing, gasping, one arm flung over his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to be seen, the other digging desperate furrows into the sheets.
His hips jerked, thighs trembling where I pinned them.
I loved it, loved feeling the power shift—him undone, me on my knees, worshipping him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I sucked harder, faster, twisting my wrist just so as I stroked what my mouth couldn’t take, my other hand splayed wide across his belly to keep him still.
I let myself get sloppy, spit leaking from the corners of my mouth, dripping down my chin onto his skin.
Sweat beaded at my temples, heat prickling down my spine.
Every sound he made went straight to my cock, throbbing hard against the mattress.
“Tom, I—I can’t—” His voice was a broken thing, choked and desperate.
“Yes, you can.” My words were muffled, mouth full of him, but he understood. I wanted to ruin him, wanted to see how much he could take, how far he’d let me go.
I slid my hands under his thighs, lifting his hips, tilting him up so I could take him deeper.
My shoulders pressed his knees even wider apart, spread eagle on the sheets.
The position was filthy, raw, everything I’d dreamed about in stolen, guilty moments.
I looked up and met his eyes—wide, blown, nearly black with want—and held his gaze as I swallowed him down again, sucking hard, cheeks slick with spit and sweat.
He whimpered, the sound sharp and helpless, and I felt him start to lose control, hips thrusting up despite himself.
I didn’t stop him. I let him fuck into my mouth, let him take what he needed, choking a little on the depth, spit dripping down my neck, my jaw aching.
My hands gripped his thighs, holding him steady, forcing him to stay open for me.
He came apart for me, body taut and shaking, and as the tremors faded, I eased off, pressing a final kiss to the slick head of his cock.
I started to move up his body, meaning to gather him in, to hold him while his breathing slowed.
But Art had other ideas. Even boneless and spent, he reached for me with surprising strength, hauling me up with both hands, desperate, eyes burning with something wild and electric.
“Come here,” he whispered, and it was less a plea than a command—voice hoarse, wrecked, but so sure, so full of want I could feel it in my bones.
He dragged me up his body, urgent hands fumbling at my hips, shoving me until I was kneeling astride his chest, my cock heavy and flushed, leaking against his skin.
The bed creaked beneath us, sheets tangled around our legs, the taste of him still in my mouth, the air thick with sex and sweat and fear.
“Art—” I started, but he cut me off with a bruising kiss, dragging me down until our mouths crashed together, his tongue greedy and searching, tasting himself on my lips. He moaned, sucking at my tongue, nipping at my bottom lip, then pulled back, breathing hard, eyes black with hunger.