Chapter Eight #2
I worked him slow, scissoring until he started pushing back, greedy for more. When I crooked my fingers, brushing over the sweet spot, his whole body jolted and he let out a sharp, desperate sound.
“Fuck, Jo, just do it,” he pleaded.
“Not until you’re ready,” I said, even though my self-control was about to snap.
He twisted his head, met my eyes, and there was nothing but raw, brutal trust in the way he looked at me. “I’m ready. I want it.”
I slicked myself up, the lube cold at first, then burning as my fist closed around the shaft. I stroked a few times, just to feel the heat and the pulse, then lined up behind him.
My hands fit perfectly on his hips—solid, a little too tight, the way he liked. I leaned forward, brought my mouth to his ear, and whispered, “Tell me to do it, beg me.”
He swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “Fuck me, Josiah. Please.”
I pressed in, just the head at first, and his body resisted, then yielded.
I went slow, feeding him inch by inch, letting him get used to the stretch.
He groaned, low and broken, but didn’t tell me to stop.
When I bottomed out, buried to the hilt, I paused and gripped his hips so hard I left fingerprints.
“You good?” I asked, even though I could feel him trembling.
He nodded, words gone.
I started to move, slow and deep, pulling out halfway before slamming back in.
The slap of skin was loud in the small room, but not as loud as the noises he made—soft at first, then louder as I picked up the pace.
He clawed at the mattress, arms shaking, but every time I slammed in, he pushed back, wanting it harder, faster.
I fucked him like I wanted to leave a mark on his soul.
There was nothing delicate about it. I pounded him, driving into him with a rhythm that matched the thump of my own heart. Sweat ran down my neck, stinging my eyes, but I didn’t stop, not even when I felt his body clench around me, close and desperate.
“Fuck, Jo, I’m gonna—” he started, but I wrapped a hand around his throat, not tight enough to choke, just enough to remind him who was in charge.
“You don’t come until I say.”
He whimpered, hips bucking, and the sight of him—so wild, so helpless—pushed me closer to the edge than I’d ever been. I reached under his body and grabbed his cock, jerking him in time with my thrusts. He was already leaking, the head bright red, and I knew he was holding on by a thread.
I pounded him, harder and deeper, until I felt the telltale pulse in his body that meant he was ready to blow.
“Now,” I said, and he cried out, coming in hot, sticky spurts all over the sheet. The sight of it—his submission, his surrender—tipped me right over. I slammed in one final time and let go, pouring myself into him, cock pulsing as I fucked him through the aftershocks.
We collapsed in a tangle of limbs, both gasping for air, sweat cooling on our skin. I stayed on top of him for a second, catching my breath, then rolled us to the side and pulled him into my arms.
He was shaking, a little, but he was smiling, eyes glazed and happy. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
I kissed the back of his neck, slow and gentle, the opposite of what I’d just done. “Not yet,” I said. “I like you better alive.”
He laughed, loose and wrecked, and let me hold him.
For a long time we just lay there, tangled up, the only sound our breathing and the distant, metallic tick of the heater. I stroked his hair, the fine, damp strands sticking to my fingers.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I told him.
“Don’t want to,” he said, voice soft.
I pressed my lips to his shoulder, then held him tighter, promising with my hands what I hadn’t yet managed to say with my mouth. He belonged to me, every inch, every scar, every wild, perfect part.
And I was never letting go.
The next time I woke, it was to sunlight and the weight of Bo’s body stretched across my chest. He’d gone boneless in sleep, all the fight and tension burned off by the night before.
The blanket had slipped down, leaving his back bare, and the bruises there had deepened to an electric purple, like the aftermath of a storm.
I lay still, breathing in the smell of him—sweat, lube, and the faint bite of road dust that never quite washed out.
I wrapped both arms around him, holding him steady, and traced the tattoo on his right shoulder with my finger: a line of pines, stark and black, following the ridge of his scapula.
His skin was warm and a little sticky under my hand.
For a while I just watched the way his chest rose and fell, the slow, even pace of someone who finally felt safe enough to let go. His head was tucked into the hollow of my throat, lips parted, and even when I brushed a strand of hair away from his temple, he didn’t stir.
I could have stayed like that all day. Hell, all week.
But my dick had other plans.
Even after everything, it didn’t take much to get hard again—the light, the heat, the memory of his mouth and the sound he made when I took him apart. I shifted under him, and the motion made him grunt, rolling to the side so we lay face to face, noses inches apart.
He blinked awake, slow, brown eyes soft and blurred by sleep. For a second, he just looked at me, like he was checking to make sure the world hadn’t shifted under his feet.
Then he grinned, wide and real, every chip in his front teeth on full display. “Morning,” he said, voice wrecked.
I slid a hand down to his ass and squeezed. “Morning, trouble.”
He stretched, long and lazy, then flopped back onto his stomach, the cheek with the stitches pressed against the pillow. The sight of those marks—the damage, the proof he’d survived—made something in my chest go tight.
“You sore?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
He snorted. “In all the best ways.” Then, after a beat, “You trying to get another round, or just showing off?”
I grabbed his hip and rolled him onto his back, gentle but firm. He let me, legs falling open, cock already half-hard and leaking onto his stomach. He didn’t try to cover himself, didn’t flinch when I leaned in and kissed along the edge of the bruise at his ribs.
“Want you,” I said, mouth against his skin.
He shivered, then wrapped his arms around my neck, pulling me down. Our lips met, soft at first, then rougher when he bit down and dragged his teeth over my bottom lip. I grunted, jerked his hips up to meet mine, and he gasped, the sound muffled by my mouth.
I broke the kiss and sat back, spreading his legs and settling between them. My hands traced the curve of his thighs, fingers pressing into muscle, marking every inch as mine.
“Get on your knees,” I said.
He hesitated for half a second, then rolled over and did exactly what I asked, head down, ass in the air. The trust in that simple motion nearly broke me.
I took a second to just look at him. The way his back arched, the little tremble in his arms, the perfect, tight line of his body. I slid a hand up his spine, palm flat, holding him steady.
“You look fucking beautiful,” I told him, and I meant it.
He huffed a laugh, but the tips of his ears went pink.
I slicked myself up, this time barely taking a second for lube, because he was already open and eager. I lined up and pushed in, slower than last time, savoring the tightness, the way he sucked me in like he’d been waiting his whole life.
He moaned, louder than before, and I reached around to stroke his cock, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. The noises he made got higher, desperate, but he never tried to pull away.
“Touch yourself,” I ordered.
He obeyed instantly, hand wrapping around his shaft and jerking in time with my movements. I could see his shoulder shaking, the muscles straining under his tattoos.
I fucked him, hard but not cruel, driving in deep and holding him there before pulling out and starting again. Every so often I’d stop, just to watch him writhe, to hear him beg for more.
“Please, Jo, harder—fuck, don’t stop—”
The sound of his voice, raw and needy, was almost enough to finish me on the spot. I held on, wanting to make it last, wanting to give him everything he’d ever wanted.
His body tensed, every muscle drawn tight, and I knew he was close. I leaned over, mouth at his ear, and said, “You want to come?”
He nodded, panting. “Please. I want to—”
“Do it,” I said, and slammed in one final time.
He screamed into the pillow, body locking up as he shot all over the sheets, the force of it almost knocking me off my knees.
The sight of it—the surrender, the absolute trust—sent me right over the edge.
I came with a growl, emptying myself into him, fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise.
We collapsed, the sweat and mess and sunlight tangling us together. I pulled him close, cradling his body against mine, pressing soft kisses along the back of his neck.
He was shaking, a little, but he turned in my arms and buried his face in my chest.
I stroked his hair, gentle now, all the roughness drained away. “Good boy,” I whispered, and felt him melt against me.
We stayed that way for a long time, neither of us moving, the room full of light and the sound of our breathing.
After a while, he looked up, eyes soft and unguarded. “You gonna keep me here forever?” he asked, half-joking, but I knew the question underneath.
I kissed his forehead. “If I could, I’d weld you to the bed frame.”
He laughed, shaking his head, and tucked himself tighter into my embrace.
“You’re a fucking psycho, Moxley.”
I smiled, letting the words hang between us. “You like it.”
He didn’t answer, but the look he gave me said it all.
When he finally drifted back to sleep, I watched the way the sun played over his face, the hint of a smile on his lips.
Outside, the world spun on, but in here, nothing could touch us.
And I knew—absolutely, without a single doubt—that whatever came next, I’d be there. Every morning, every night, holding him together until he was strong enough to hold himself.
Until then, he was mine.
Every. Fucking. Inch.