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.
