Page 20

“Slowly,” Bohdi says.

Morgan hears him. He hears the word and he registers it and some part of his brain files it away, but his fingers do not stop. His rhythm does not falter. He is three knuckles deep and panting and the sensation is cresting and his body wants what it wants, and he thrusts his fingers in again, hard, and twists, and the wet noise of it is loud in the quiet.

He hears Bohdi move.

The shift of weight, the displacement of air, and he knows Bohdi is coming toward him but the knowledge does not prepare him for it, does not brace him.

A hand presses against his collarbones.

It is heavy and broad and certain, the web between Bohdi’s thumb and forefinger settling against the base of Morgan’s throat and pressing him flat against the bedroll. Morgan gasps, loud and shocked, the sound knocked out of him, and his whole body jolts, his fingers stuttering inside himself, his back arching up against the implacable weight of Bohdi’s palm.

Bohdi’s other hand catches his wrist. It wraps around it completely, his fingers overlapping on the other side, because Morgan’s wrists are lean and Bohdi’s hands are enormous, and it holds his hand exactly where it is, half-buried inside his own body. Morgan can feel the heat of Bohdi’s grip, the calluses, the sheer size of it.

Bohdi’s mouth finds his ear. His teeth close on the shell of it, sharp enough to sting, sharp enough to send a bolt of sensation straight down Morgan’s spine to the place where his own fingers are still pressed deep.

“I said slowly, my prince.”

The words are a growl, low and rough and edged with something that is not anger but lives next door to it. Authority. Command. An instruction given and not obeyed and about to be corrected personally. The hand on Morgan’s throat presses down, just slightly, just enough to feel, and Morgan’s pulse hammers against Bohdi’s palm and his cock throbs and his entire body lights up.

Then Bohdi’s grip tightens on his wrist and begins to move.

He works Morgan’s own fingers in and out of him, slow and deliberate. Each stroke is measured and controlled, pulled nearly out until only the tips remain, Morgan’s rim clinging, wet, reluctant to let them go, and then pressed back in, deep, to the knuckle. The pace is Bohdi’s and not Morgan’s. The rhythm is so slow that Morgan can feel every inch of the drag, every fraction of the stretch, the way his hole clings and releases and opens with each withdrawal and return. He can hear it. The slick filthy sound of his own fingers being fucked into him.

“Better,” Bohdi breathes between them. “Good boy.”

Morgan is going to combust.

He is pinned to the bedroll by the hand on his chest and fucked by his own fingers at a pace he did not choose, and the loss of control is so comprehensive that his thoughts dissolve. He is not performing anymore. He is not putting on a show. He is a body being taken apart, and the hands doing the taking are Bohdi’s, and the fingers inside him are his own, and the combination is so intimate that he cannot process it.

He presses back against his own fingers, against Bohdi’s hand. His hips roll into the slow rhythm, trying to take them deeper, trying to speed up. Bohdi holds him steady and does not let him rush and keeps the pace exactly where he set it. Morgan’s heel digs into the bedroll for leverage and his heel slips and catches again and his cock leaks a steady stream against his stomach, untouched and aching, the head an angry flushed red. Bohdi’s hand on his throat is warm and heavy and Morgan can feel Bohdi’s pulse in the palm pressed to his neck, can feel the heat of him all along his side where he is leaning over him, close enough that his breath is warm against Morgan’s ear.

He does not know when he starts begging.

He genuinely does not. He does not catch the transition, does not hear the moment the gasps shift to words, the wordless sounds resolving into language. One moment he is breathing and the next he is saying please and the next he is saying Bohdi, please, fuck me, fuck me, and the words are falling out of him broken and breathless and continuous, a stream he cannot stop and does not try to stop. They spill from him the way sound has been spilling from him all night, loud, louder than he would ever be inside the keep, louder than he has ever allowed himself to be, and the freedom of it is terrifying because there is nothing left between him and the rawness of what he wants. He is begging. He is lying on a bedroll in the woods with a hand on his throat and his own fingers inside him and he is begging the man he loves to give him more, and he cannot stop and does not want to, and every word is another layer of armor stripped away, and he is bare. Bohdi’s hand on his wrist is steady and Bohdi’s hand on his collar is steady and Morgan is not steady at all.

Bohdi swears under his breath. It comes out guttural and wrecked, a single word, bitten off, carrying the weight of whatever is left of his self-control, and the hand on Morgan’s throat lifts. The sudden absence of pressure makes Morgan gasp, and he hears Bohdi’s free hand working between them, the scrape and slide of a buckle, the shove of fabric, and Bohdi is getting his trousers open with one hand while the other still grips Morgan’s wrist and still moves Morgan’s fingers inside him in that slow relentless rhythm.

Morgan catches a glimpse. Bohdi’s cock, heavy and darker than the rest of him, the head already dripping, and the size of it makes Morgan’s hole flutter around his own fingers in anticipation.

Then Bohdi’s fingers press against his rim alongside his own.

The pressure is sudden and enormous, Bohdi’s fingers broad and blunt and slicked with the oil he must have grabbed with his free hand, nudging against the place where Morgan’s three fingers are already buried. Morgan feels himself stretch further, feels the impossible fullness of it, the rim going taut and burning around too much, and then Bohdi pushes in and his fingers sink in beside Morgan’s own.

Morgan keens.

The sound that tears out of him is broken and loud and it does not sound like his voice. It is an animal sound, stripped of everything civilized, and it rips from somewhere deep in his chest and carries through the trees and the dark, and if anyone were within a mile of this campsite they would know that something devastating was happening in it. He is so full. He is impossibly full, his own fingers and Bohdi’s tangled together inside him, stretching him past anything he has taken before, the burn bright and perfect, and his body seizes around the intrusion and his cock jerks against his stomach.

Bohdi fucks him on their fingers. Morgan’s and his own, intertwined inside him, pressing in and pulling out in the rhythm Bohdi sets, and it is no longer slow. Whatever patience he was exercising has burned away, and the strokes are deep and steady and purposeful, dragging against the spot inside him that turns his thoughts to static on every pass. The wet noise of it is obscene. Morgan’s free hand scrabbles at the bedroll, at the dirt, at Bohdi’s arm. His fingers dig into the muscle of Bohdi’s forearm and hold on, because the world has tilted sideways and will not right itself and Bohdi’s arm is the only solid thing left in it.

Morgan is going to come.

He is not going to make it. The knowledge arrives with no doubt attached. The pressure is building and cresting, a wave gathering height and speed that he cannot outrun and cannot stall. His cock is throbbing against his stomach, untouched, dripping steadily onto his own skin, and his knees have started to give and his breath is coming in sobs and the double sensation of his own fingers and Bohdi’s fingers fucking him open is too much.

Bohdi seems to realize it. The recognition passes between them without words, a shift in Bohdi’s breathing, a fractional tightening of his grip, and then Bohdi’s free hand curls around Morgan’s cock. The contact is a shock, sudden and overwhelming after so long untouched, rough-palmed and tight, and Morgan’s hips jerk and a cry gets away from him. Bohdi strokes him once, tight and slick with Morgan’s own precome, and then his hand is gone and his mouth is there instead, leaning down, not teasing, not building, taking Morgan to the back of his throat in one smooth motion.

The wet, tight heat swallows him whole.

Morgan stops breathing. Every muscle contracts at once. Bohdi’s mouth is around him, all the way, the thick head of him pressed against the back of Bohdi’s throat, the swallow of it a devastating squeeze. The fingers inside him do not stop. They are still thrusting, still dragging, working him open in that deep steady rhythm, and the two sensations converge into a single blinding point and Morgan comes so hard he sees spots.