Chapter 21 Carry You #5
I moaned, hands sliding up to my own chest, fingers tweaking and rolling my nipples, pinching hard, needing the bite of pain to anchor the pleasure. I could feel the sweat slick on my skin, my own scent rising sharp and musky in the hot, close air.
Without thinking, I shoved my face into my own armpit, inhaling, the smell of myself mingling with the taste of Art still lingering on my lips. The filth of it made me harder, cock twitching against my belly, leaking slick down my stomach.
“Fuck, Tom, look at you—” Art’s voice was hoarse, reverent, as he watched me writhe, fingers working my nipples, nose buried in the funk of sweat and sex. “You’re fucking perfect. So filthy for me.”
He leaned forward, bending me in half, my knees pressed almost to my shoulders. He grabbed my ankle, lifting my foot to his mouth, and sucked two of my toes between his lips, tongue working, teeth grazing, wet and hot and obscene.
The sight of it—the feel of it—sent me wild. I squeezed my own nipples harder, pinched them until I nearly cried out, all the while grinding my hole down onto his cock, greedy for every inch.
Art let my toes go with a pop, then spat in my face, watching it drip down my cheek, my jaw. I grinned, feral, then spit back—hitting his mouth, his chin, the mess of it making him snarl, driving into me harder, faster, sweat flying from both our bodies.
We were a tangle of limbs and mouths and mess, the bed creaking under us, the sheets twisted and soaked. Art bent to suck my other toes, licking and mouthing, then let my legs fall wide again, kneeling between them, pounding into me with a brutal, relentless rhythm.
I thrashed beneath him, pinching my nipples, rubbing my cock against my own belly, sweat slicking every movement. The room was a sauna, air thick with heat and sex and the animal stink of two bodies desperate to devour each other.
Art grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head, then bent to lick a stripe up my arm, biting the inside of my elbow, sucking a mark onto my bicep. His mouth found my throat, my jaw, then my lips, tongues tangling, spit smeared everywhere, both of us gasping and cursing.
He broke the kiss just long enough to pant, “Tell me you want it—tell me you want me to ruin you.”
“God, yes,” I groaned, arching up, legs locked around his waist, “Want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk. Want to feel you for days. Ruin me, Art. Please.”
That undid him. He let go of my wrists, grabbed my hips, and drove into me with everything he had, sweat pouring down his chest, dripping onto mine. He bent to suck one of my nipples, biting down until I yelped, then soothed it with his tongue.
“Look at us,” he breathed, voice ragged, “sweat and spit and come everywhere. You’re fucking beautiful, Tom. So fucking good.”
He let my legs slide over his shoulders, folding me nearly in two, his cock hitting even deeper, the angle making me sob, the pleasure so sharp it almost hurt. He spat on his fingers, reached down to stroke my cock, matching his thrusts, working me closer and closer to the edge.
Sweat dripped from his hair, splashed onto my lips. I licked it away, tasting the salt, tasting us.
Art grinned down at me, feral and wild, and leaned in close, whispering, “Let go for me. Come for me, Tom. Want to see you fall apart.”
He drove into me, relentless, thumb circling the head of my cock, mouth hot on my toes, sweat running down his face onto mine, and I shattered—coming hard, spilling over his hand, chest, stomach, the world narrowing to nothing but sensation, sensation, sensation.
He followed, cock pulsing deep inside me, face twisted in pleasure, sweat and spit and come everywhere, both of us undone.
For a long time, we just breathed, bodies tangled, soaked and sticky and gloriously ruined.
“Never felt anything like that,” Art whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to mine.
“Me neither,” I said, and for once, it was the pure, perfect truth.
“We probably shouldn't have done that with a guard outside the door.”
“Probably not.”
“Do you regret it?”
I pulled back enough to look at him. Really look. At the tear tracks still visible on his cheeks. The swollen eyes. The absolutely wrecked expression that somehow made him more beautiful, not less.
“Not for a second,” I said. “Do you?”
“No.” He curled closer, head tucked under my chin. “I thought I would. Thought when it finally happened I'd feel guilty or scared or wrong. But I just feel...” He paused, searching. “Found. Like I've been lost my whole life and didn't know it until now.”
“That's how I feel too.”
We lay there in silence for a long moment, letting the reality of what we'd done settle around us. The implications. The risks. The fact that everything had changed and there was no going back.
I dressed carefully, made sure my uniform was immaculate, my bearing steady. Whatever game Finch wanted to play, I would meet it head-on.
The walk to the manor felt longer than usual. Snow crunched under my boots, each step measured and deliberate. I passed Hut X and thought of Art, confined to his room, probably lying awake wondering what was happening, what I was doing, whether today would be the day everything fell apart.
Finch's door was closed. I knocked twice, waited for the command to enter.
“Sergeant Hale. Sit.”
I sat. Same chair as before, same interrogation lighting, same cold calculation in Finch's pale eyes.
“You visited Mr Pembroke yesterday. Against explicit orders that he was not to have visitors.”
“I conducted a welfare check. Standard protocol for security personnel monitoring high-value assets.”
“High-value assets.” Finch repeated the phrase with something approaching amusement. “Is that what we're calling him now?”
“He's a cryptanalyst essential to the war effort. His mental and physical welfare directly impacts our operational capability. I determined that isolation without any human contact could exacerbate existing stress responses and potentially impair his future usefulness.”
The words came out clinical, professional. Everything I'd rehearsed in my head during the long night hours.
“And how long did this welfare check last?”
“As long as necessary to ensure he was stable.”
“Which was?”
“I didn't time it precisely, sir. I was focused on the assessment.”
Finch leaned back in his chair, studying me with those cold eyes. “The guard reported you were in that room for nearly two hours, Sergeant. That seems excessive for a simple welfare check.”
“Mr Pembroke was in significant distress when I arrived. It took time to calm him down enough for coherent communication.” Kept my voice flat. Steady. “I'm sure you're aware of his documented anxiety responses. They don't resolve quickly.”
“I'm aware of many things about Mr Pembroke.” Finch pulled a familiar object from his desk drawer. Art's Black Book, the cloth cover worn soft with handling, Bea's stitched initials barely visible on the inside. “Including his habit of encoding personal thoughts in military-grade cipher.”
He set the notebook on the desk between us like evidence at a trial.
“Have you seen the contents of this notebook, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Never? In all your time escorting him, monitoring him, conducting welfare checks? He never showed you what he writes in these pages?”
“Mr Pembroke's personal effects are his own concern. I'm assigned to protect him, not to surveil his private thoughts.”
“And yet private thoughts can be dangerous. Private thoughts can reveal loyalties, intentions, vulnerabilities.” Finch tapped the notebook's cover.
“I've had our people working on this all night. The cipher is sophisticated. Multiple layers. Someone put considerable effort into making these entries unreadable.”
My heart hammered, but I kept my expression neutral. “Mr Pembroke is a cryptanalyst. Sophisticated ciphers are his speciality.”
“Indeed. Which raises the question: why would a man who creates unbreakable codes for his country use those same skills to hide his personal writings?” Finch's eyes never left my face. “What is he so desperate to conceal?”
“I wouldn't know, sir. You'd have to ask him.”
“I have asked him. He claims it's merely a coping mechanism. A way to process the stress of the work.” Finch opened the notebook, flipped to a page dense with encoded text.
“But coping mechanisms don't usually require military-grade encryption.
Coping mechanisms don't usually make a man go white with terror when someone asks to see them.”
He closed the book. Looked at me.
“What is your relationship with Mr Pembroke, Sergeant? And I want the truth this time. Not the professional distance you've been performing.”
The moment stretched. I could feel the trap closing, could see exactly where this was heading. Finch had suspicions. Maybe even evidence. And he was giving me one chance to confirm or deny before he made his move.
I thought about Art. About his tears. About the way he'd said I love you like it was the most terrifying and necessary thing he'd ever done.
Thought about what would happen if I told the truth.
And what would happen if I lied.
“My relationship with Mr Pembroke,” I said carefully, “is exactly what I've reported. I'm his security escort. I've developed a professional rapport that allows me to perform my duties more effectively. Nothing more.”
Finch was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and returned the notebook to his drawer.
“Very well, Sergeant. I'll take you at your word. For now.” He stood, moved to the window, looked out at the snow-covered grounds.
“But I want you to understand something.
I'm not a fool. I've been doing this job for longer than you've been a soldier. I know when people are hiding things. And I know when those hidden things pose a threat to operational security.”
He turned back to face me.
“Mr Pembroke's suspension will continue until our analysis of his notebook is complete. You will maintain your escort duties when and if he is permitted to return to work. And you will report to me immediately if you observe anything, anything at all, that suggests he may be compromised in any way.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
I stood. Made it to the door.
“Sergeant.” Finch's voice stopped me. “One more thing. The guard who was posted outside Mr Pembroke's room. He's been reassigned. The new guard will be more... attentive. I trust that won't be a problem.”
A warning. Clear and direct.
“No, sir. No problem at all.”
Left his office and walked out into the cold morning air, and didn't let myself react until I was well out of sight of the manor windows.
Then I stopped. Leaned against a tree. Let my head fall back against the rough bark and breathed until the shaking in my hands subsided.