“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. Iwanted 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?”
