Chapter 18 #2
Bodhi leaned in and kissed me hard, stealing my breath until my lungs burned.
I used the moment to push him back onto the bed, and he landed with a surprised grunt.
Before he could react, I swung a leg over him and straddled his hips.
His cock brushed my slick crease, the head catching at my rim and making us both gasp.
For one reckless moment, I wanted to take him bare.
Wanted skin on skin. Heat and nothing else.
But reality cut through the haze. I’d been tested after my overdose, and I hadn’t been with anyone since.
Bodhi hadn’t either, not since before rehab—but that wasn’t the conversation to have now. Not like this.
So I rocked against him once. Twice. Then I pulled back and reached for the condom and lube. I tore the foil open with my teeth and rolled it down his shaft. Added a bit of lube for good measure and tossed the bottle aside.
Rising onto my knees, I scooted forward and reached back to guide him. Bodhi’s hands gripped my hips, steady and grounding, as I lined him up. I exhaled and lowered myself slowly, gasping as he slipped past the first ring of muscle. The sting made me bite my lip.
“Go slow,” Bodhi rumbled, voice rough, like gravel lodged in his throat. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Need you,” I whimpered, dropping a fraction lower.
He squeezed my hips, holding me still. “We’ve got all night, baby.”
I nodded, letting him keep me there while my body adjusted. It had been a while, and Bodhi’s size was . . . generous. This wasn’t something I could rush anymore.
But as much as I hated patience, sinking onto him inch by inch felt different.
Better. More deliberate. More us. Every slow movement erased the ghosts of nameless bodies and careless nights.
Every kiss, every steadying touch wiped the slate clean.
Bodhi turned me into something new. Something chosen.
A blank canvas, and I was letting him write all over me.
My ass met his hips, and I clenched instinctively. Bodhi groaned, his head tipping back against the pillows.
“Fuck,” he growled, his hands sliding back to cup my ass.
I gave myself a moment to adjust before lifting up and dropping back down. Then again. And again. Rising to my knees and letting gravity take over, landing in his lap with the sinful sound of skin slapping skin.
“Bodhi—shit,” I panted, riding him properly now. “Love your cock.”
His hands skimmed up my sides until they covered my pecs, thumbs circling my nipples. “You’re a piece of fucking art, Iggy.”
I leaned back, bracing my hands on his thighs, and the change in angle drove his cock straight into my prostate.
A sound ripped out of me that I’d absolutely deny making under any other circumstances.
My own cock leaked freely, precum spilling down onto his stomach, bouncing between us like it was begging for attention.
And somehow, Bodhi heard it.
His hand wrapped around my length, warm and sure.
My hips stuttered, caught between dropping onto his cock and fucking into his fist. The dual sensation was almost too much.
Tears pricked my eyes. Drool slipped down my chin.
I was a mess, leaking from almost everywhere, body overstimulated and uncaring.
“Bodhi!” I cried when he pinched my nipple.
“Fuck,” he groaned as my body clenched around him. “Fucking love you.”
My head fell back, like I physically couldn’t hold it up anymore. I barely knew which way was up, or what my name was, but my mouth kept forming the same words, over and over, stitched into my soul while my brain worked without thought.
“Love you. I love you. Bodhi—fuck—love you so much.”
My eyes slid shut, colour bursting behind my lids. My orgasm was right there. I just . . . I just needed—
“Look at me,” Bodhi rumbled, pinching my nipple again. “Fucking look at me when you come, Iggy.”
My eyes flew open and my head tipped forward. His hips snapped up, driving into my prostate, and I shattered. I yelled as my body jerked, ropes of cum spilling from me, coating his fist, his stomach, even hitting his chin.
He released my cock, and I slumped forward, uncaring of the mess between us. My tongue swept out, licking the evidence from his skin. The growl in his chest vibrated through me.
Bodhi gripped my hips, planted his feet, and fucked up into me, chasing his own release.
Each thrust grazed my prostate, pushing me right to the edge of oversensitivity.
My body couldn’t decide whether to crave it or recoil, but I was too far gone to care.
Dazed. Spent. Floating in the aftermath and the warmth of his skin.
I was just a vessel for him to use, to finish inside.
And judging by the way my oversensitive cock still twitched, some part of me liked that thought far more than I was ready to unpack.
Bodhi’s hips snapped up and down, and I pressed my lips to his neck, feeling his pulse race beneath my mouth. I lifted my head just enough to catch his earlobe between my teeth, sucking gently before giving it a sharp nip that dragged a groan out of him.
“Come for me, Bodhi,” I rasped against his ear. “Fill me up.”
With a broken grunt, his rhythm faltered. His hips stuttered, thrusting twice more before he went still with a raw, unfiltered yell that sent a shiver straight through me. I smirked despite my exhaustion. We were absolutely having the bareback conversation soon.
His chest heaved as he collapsed into the mattress, and I eventually felt him soften, slipping free of me. The sudden emptiness made me want to whine, even though I knew I’d be sore tomorrow, left with that familiar, dull yet satisfying ache.
Strong arms wrapped around me, and I wriggled until I was settled beside him, face tucked into the curve of his neck, breathing in the remnants of his cologne. His fingers slid into my hair, scratching gently at my scalp until a contented sound slipped out of me and I pressed closer.
We were both sticky, in desperate need of a shower, and Bodhi still had to deal with the condom. But with his heat surrounding me and his hand moving through my hair, my eyes were already drifting shut, the quiet pull of after-sex sleep tugging me under.
I hovered somewhere between consciousness and dreams when his lips brushed my temple.
“I love you, Iggy,” he murmured, squeezing me close.
My mouth felt too heavy for words, so I reached over and pinched his nipple instead.
The way he hissed and laughed under his breath told me he got the message.
Two days later, we stepped off the bus in Zurich after a three-and-a-half-hour drive that somehow felt longer.
Despite the short journey, Bodhi had insisted we share a bunk.
It sounded sweet in theory. Romantic, even.
And we’d done it before, back when his panic attack had left him shaking and needing another body nearby to remind him he was real.
It was also nice not having to sneak around anymore. No hushed laughs or careful glances, no pretending we weren’t already tangled up in each other in every way that mattered.
But theory and reality rarely get along.
The bunks were barely bigger than a wardrobe laid on its side, and squeezing two grown men into one was hot, cramped, and awkward in ways no amount of affection could fully fix.
It worked out just fine for Bodhi. He was wrecked after the final Milan show and fell asleep before his head properly hit the pillow, breathing deep and even like his body had finally decided it was safe to shut down.
I, on the other hand, spent most of the night quietly rearranging myself, trying to find a position that wouldn’t make my hip seize up without waking him. Every time I shifted, pain flared sharp and bright, then dulled into a low ache that sat there like it was waiting for attention.
I thought about the Tramadol. Thought about how easy it would be to take one and let sleep do the rest. But the bottle was already running low, and that thought settled in my gut like a warning I didn’t want to look at too closely.
What would happen when they ran out? Did Ghost still have more? And how the hell would I ask him without Bodhi noticing?
Turns out I didn’t have long to avoid those questions.
After we dumped our bags in my hotel room, Bodhi made a beeline for the bed and crawled straight under the covers.
It took less than a minute for his breathing to even out, his chest rising and falling in a steady, familiar rhythm.
He hadn’t slept well in rehab, or at the start of the tour, and seeing him like this made something settle in my chest.
The shadows under his eyes were fading. I didn’t have to layer concealer on quite so heavily anymore. When his jaw unclenched and the constant tension left his face, he looked younger. Softer. Like his waking hours weren’t one long tug-of-war between doing the right thing and wanting to disappear.
Compared to the boys’ horror stories from past tours, this one had been . . . tame.
Bodhi’s bandmates had shown up for him in ways that mattered.
They planned things that included him without applying pressure.
Checked in without hovering. Waited until he bowed out for the night before letting loose, or timed their chaos around plans the two of us had already made.
They were careful without being patronising.
It helped, knowing he had them. And even though they didn’t know the full story of my own addiction, Bodhi made sure that same care extended to me too. At least while we were on the road.
I hadn’t let myself think too far past that. About what would happen when the tour ended. When Bodhi and I went back to our own countries, our own lives. Thousands of miles and an ocean between us.
Call me an ostrich. I had my head buried firmly in the sand.