Chapter Eight
~ Josiah ~
I woke up with a mouth on my cock.
My first thought was: I’m dreaming, because even for me, waking up to Bodean McKenzie sucking your dick is some high-octane fantasy shit.
My second thought, when he scraped his teeth—gentle, just a threat—along the underside, was that if this was a dream, I’d punch God in the throat for ever letting me wake up.
He had both hands braced on my thighs, every tendon in his forearms standing out, and the low noise in the back of his throat wasn’t a moan—it was a challenge.
His lips were swollen, cheekbones bruised to hell, but that didn’t slow him for a second.
He worked me like he’d missed a meal and was making up for it in protein.
I let my head thud back against the pillow, stared at the cracked paint on the ceiling, and let him set the pace.
That was the part that fucked with me most: how easily he gave in, the way he let me steer him without ever losing his own rhythm.
Every time I guided him deeper, fisting a handful of hair at the crown and forcing his head down, he took it.
Eyes locked on me, mouth slick and wet and unashamed.
“Bo,” I warned, voice rough, but he didn’t slow down. If anything, he dug his fingers into my thigh harder, making a mark I’d wear for days.
I could feel the heat building in my belly, a slow, angry burn that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with possession.
I’d never seen him look so goddamn happy, so desperate to please.
Even when he gagged—just a little, just enough to make my control slip—he looked up at me, lips stretched around my cock, and held my gaze.
My left hand found his jaw, thumb pressing against the soft spot at the hinge. His stubble scraped my palm, scratchy and perfect. I used my grip to force him all the way down, and he let me, taking every inch until his nose bumped my stomach and his eyes started to water.
He hummed, like he liked the stretch, like he wanted more.
“You’re gonna choke,” I growled.
He pulled off, wiping spit from his chin with the back of his wrist. “Isn’t that the point?”
Smartass. Always.
I tugged him back by the hair and he dove in again, bobbing his head with a messiness that made my hips jerk. He went for broke, hollowing his cheeks, using his tongue in a way that made my balls draw up tight against my body.
My vision went white at the edges. The burn hit, then the rush, and I came with a shout, every muscle in my thighs going taut as cables. Bo didn’t flinch. He took it, swallowed, then licked the head clean like it was a favor he was doing for both of us.
For a second I just lay there, chest heaving, staring at the lines of his back.
The tattoos there—thunderbird, pine trees, an old-school wrench—looked like someone had painted them onto marble, the ink standing out against the pale skin in sharp contrast. I wanted to grab him, pin him to the bed, bite down on every bruise and mark until he remembered exactly who he belonged to.
He lifted his head, eyes a little wild. “You awake now?”
I yanked him upright, one hand at the base of his throat, and kissed him so hard I felt the split in his lip reopen.
He whimpered, just a little, and I used my other hand to shove him back onto the mattress.
He landed with a thump, arms splayed above his head, the old flannel shirt riding up to bare his hips. He wasn’t wearing anything else.
“You’re gonna wreck me,” he said, grinning, but the way his voice shook told me everything.
I knelt over him, both knees bracketing his hips, and held him down with the weight of my body. My hand slid under the shirt, found a nipple, and pinched it hard. He gasped, arching his back, and I did it again, twisting until he hissed through his teeth.
“Like that?” I said.
He nodded, biting his lip, but I wasn’t satisfied until he said it out loud. I pinched again, harder, and waited.
“Yes,” he managed, voice hoarse. “Please, Jo.”
That did something to me, broke the last of the leash.
I bent down and mouthed at the bruises on his chest, tracing the dark marks left by whoever had fucked him up last week. I wanted to erase those, paint over them with my own teeth, make him forget that anyone else had ever laid a hand on him.
He squirmed under me, legs kicking, and I used my thighs to trap him in place. The power dynamic had always been there—undercurrent, tension—but now it was a live wire. He craved it. I saw the way his cock was already hard, leaking onto his stomach, just from being pinned and handled.
I slid my hand down, grabbed his shaft, and stroked him slow, wrist twisting at the top. He made a noise then—a soft, broken thing—and I felt the echo of it everywhere.
“Touch yourself,” I ordered.
He hesitated for a split second, then wrapped a hand around himself, working his cock in time with my grip on his throat. I wanted to watch him come apart, wanted to see what happened when he gave up every inch of control.
I let him jerk himself, my hand never leaving his neck. I squeezed, a little tighter, just to see his eyes go wide. The trust there nearly unmade me.
I leaned in, mouth at his ear. “You can come when I say. Not before.”
He nodded, eyes glazed.
“Say it.”
“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “I’ll be good.”
God. That. I kissed him again, softer this time, but with the same ferocity beneath the surface. My fingers traveled back to his chest, teasing the nipple until it was red and raw. He rocked into my touch, legs shaking.
When I finally let go of his throat, I gripped his jaw and made him look at me. “You’re mine,” I told him.
He nodded, and for once there was no trace of defiance. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
I felt the hunger in me shift, become something even deeper. I wanted to keep him here, every night, every morning. I wanted to erase every scar and bruise with my hands, then make new ones that meant something.
“Come.” One word, but that was all I needed, all he needed.
He came hard, shuddering all over, spilling across his own stomach and mine. I watched the look on his face—the relief, the surrender—and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
We collapsed together, sweat and spit and something else, tangled in the sheets. I pulled him against my chest, arms wrapped tight, and kissed the top of his head.
“Next time,” I said, “I’m waking you up.”
He laughed, voice muffled by my skin. “Deal, Moxley. Just don’t expect me to take it easy.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
We lay there, catching our breath, and for a long time neither of us spoke. I traced lazy lines over his arm, following the tattoos, the scars, the places only I knew.
Outside, the world was still dark, but in here, with Bo curled up and breathing against my heart, it felt like the sun had already come up.
I thought I’d wrung the fight out of him, but Bo was still hungry. He curled up next to me, breathing hard, every inch of him slick with sweat and spit.
The room was a mess—blankets twisted, pillows punched into new shapes, the air heavy with the animal smell of what we’d just done. The adrenaline was still in my veins, sharp and bright, but underneath was a deeper hunger, something I’d kept chained for too damn long.
I ran a hand down his spine, counting each vertebra under the hot skin. “You awake?” I rumbled, even though I already knew the answer.
He groaned, muffled by the crook of his arm, and turned his head so I could see the wrecked look on his face. Eyes glassy, lips swollen, every muscle in his jaw gone slack. “If I say no, do I get out of whatever’s about to happen?”
“Not a chance,” I said, and cupped the back of his neck, thumb kneading the tension out of the knots. He shivered under my touch, and the way his body went loose told me he’d give me anything I wanted.
I hooked an arm around his waist and flipped him onto his stomach. He didn’t protest, just laughed low and soft, letting me manhandle him into place.
I pressed a knee between his thighs, nudging them apart, and settled myself over his back. My cock, already hard again, rested against the cleft of his ass, and I ground into him just to feel the jolt of anticipation spark down his spine.
“Christ,” he muttered, fingers clawing at the mattress. “You ever take a break?”
I leaned down, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Not when I have something worth working for.”
He bucked his hips, half-defiant, but I just grabbed both wrists and pinned them above his head, holding him down with a force that made him gasp.
His back arched, tattoos stretching across the expanse of skin, and I bit a line from his shoulder to the base of his neck.
He yelped, then moaned, the sound melting into a wordless plea.
“You like that?” I said, voice thick.
He nodded, forehead pressed to the pillow, but I wasn’t satisfied. I nipped again, harder, and said, “Say it.”
“Yeah. Fuck. I like it,” he said, words tumbling out between ragged breaths.
I released his wrists and reached for the nightstand, flipping open the drawer and grabbing the bottle of lube. I slicked two fingers, then dragged them down the crack of his ass, teasing at the tight ring. He shifted, spreading his legs wider, and made a hungry, impatient noise.
“You in a hurry, Bo?”
“Please,” he said, and the tremor in his voice was pure need.
I circled his hole, working the lube in slow, patient rings.
When I pushed the tip of my finger inside, he sucked in a breath, body tensing, but then he exhaled and relaxed, letting me slide in up to the knuckle.
I moved slow, gentle at first, wanting him to feel every inch.
His ass gripped my finger, hot and slick, and when I added a second, he groaned, rocking back to take it.
“You can take more than that,” I told him, voice gone hoarse.
“Can and want to,” he shot back, trying for bravado, but it broke on the last syllable when I spread my fingers, stretching him open.