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.
Chapter Nine
