The sheets rustled when I shifted, my bare legs brushing his, and I felt the heat where his thigh pressed into my calf. There was nothing sexual in it—not tonight, at least. Just warmth and pressure, the absolute certainty that if I stayed still, nothing bad could get me.
I must have drifted, because the next time I opened my eyes the lamp was off and only moonlight glared through the slats in the blinds. Jo was still holding me, his grip even firmer than before, but I could tell by the stiffness in his arm that he’d been awake the whole time.
I moved, just a little, and he was instantly there, hand splaying wide across my belly. “You okay?” he whispered, voice a rumble just above my ear.
I nodded, my own voice stuck somewhere in my chest. I waited, counting the slow beat of his pulse where my fingers found his wrist.
Then, when I was sure I wouldn’t choke on it, I asked: “What happens when my family finds out about us?”
There was a long silence, the kind that could have killed me once. But Jo just pulled me in tighter, lips against the back of my neck. He didn’t say anything fancy or fake. Just: “Let me worry about that.”
And I did.
I let the thought float away, let his warmth bleed into me, let the bed become the whole world. I curled closer, breathing in the safe, animal smell of his body, and for the first time in years, I knew what it was to sleep without fear.
When the morning came, I was still there, still held, still safe. And I knew, deep in my bones, that he would be awake and watching the door, daring anyone in the world to try and take me back.
Chapter Eight
~ Josiah ~
I woke up with a mouth on my cock.
Not just any mouth—his, and if I’d ever doubted Bo could surprise me, that went straight out the window at 2:37 a.m. when I opened my eyes and found him kneeling at the edge of my bed, nothing but skin and tattoos and those idiot-brown eyes, staring up with an expression so raw it made my whole body tense.
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.
