Page 68 of Fought it Through the Teeth

The certainty in his voice makes Morgan's breath stutter. Then Bohdi leans down and kisses him, slow this time, deep, the kind of kiss that says I have decided what I'm going to do with you and none of your opinions will be consulted, and Morgan grabs his shoulders and holds on.

Bohdi's mouth moves down his jaw, his throat, the hollow behind his ear that makes Morgan gasp and dig his fingernails into Bohdi's back. Then lower, across his collarbone, down his sternum, pressing soft over every bruise as he goes, so careful with the damaged parts of him and so relentless with the rest. His teeth graze Morgan's nipple and Morgan hisses and arches up and Bohdi holds his hip down with one broad hand and does it again, harder, and Morgan makes a sound that is very close to a whine and shoves at Bohdi's shoulder in retaliation. Bohdi catches his wrist and pins it to the mattress beside his hip without breaking stride, and Morgan pulls against the hold because he has to, because the testing of limits is as fundamental to him as breathing, and the grip doesn't budge. He doesn't want to admit how much he likes it.

Bohdi mouths a trail down the center of his stomach, detours around the worst of the bruising on his ribs, and pauses at his hip bone to bite, not hard, but enough. Morgan's hips jerk and his free hand flies to Bohdi's hair and grips, and he's so hard it hurts, his cock flushed dark and leaking against his stomach, and Bohdi hasn't touched it.

"Bohdi," Morgan says, and it comes out thinner than he intended.

"Mm." Bohdi's mouth is maddeningly close to where Morgan needs it and a thousand miles from actually doing anything useful.

"If you don't⁠—"

"Patience."

"I have been patient for years⁠—"

Bohdi laughs against his skin, warm and delighted, and Morgan would kill him if he weren't so desperate. Then Bohdi shifts lower, pushes Morgan's thighs further apart with both hands, and Morgan's brain whites out because he realizes what Bohdi intends to do approximately half a second before he does it.

Bohdi's slicked fingers—oil from the bedside table, when did he reach for that—press against his rim in slow circles, not pushing in yet, just pressure and slide and heat, and Morgan's head falls back against the pillow and his mouth opens on a soundless exhale. Then one finger pushes inside him, slow and deliberate and unbearably careful of the bruised body it's entering, and Morgan grabs a fistful of the sheet and pulls.

A second finger, twisting as it slides in alongside the first, and Morgan bites down on his own lip hard enough to taste copper. Bohdi works him open thoroughly, unhurried, adjusting the angle with small precise movements until he finds the spot that makes Morgan's whole body jolt. Morgan yelps and his hand flies down to grab Bohdi's wrist, and Bohdi pauses and looks up the length of his body at him and says, "What? You don't like it?"

"You're insufferable⁠—"

Bohdi crooks his fingers again and Morgan arches off the bed with a strangled sound, and the laugh Bohdi breathes against the inside of his thigh is so warm and so fond and so completely Bohdi that Morgan wants to either weep or scream at him.

"You're being—fuck—you're being smug about this, I can tell⁠—"

"I told you I wanted to see you," Bohdi reminds him, and adds a third finger, and Morgan forgets what language is.

The stretch burns beautifully, the ache of it running up through his core, and Bohdi eases him through it with a patience that belies the hard flush across his own chest and the way his cock is dripping against the sheets between Morgan's thighs. Morgan rolls his hips down onto his hand, chasing the fullness, and Bohdi lets him, lets him fuck himself on his fingers for a few blinding moments while Morgan grips the sheets and pants and loses every pretense of composure he's ever possessed.

Then Bohdi dips his head and licks a long, flat stripe across Morgan's hole, alongside his own fingers, and Morgan screams.

His hand slams into Bohdi's hair and grips, and his thighs try to close. Bohdi holds them open, one broad palm flat on the inside of his thigh, pushing him wide, and does it again, his tongue slipping around and between his own fingers where they're buried in Morgan, wet and filthy and impossibly tender.

"Oh gods," Morgan gasps, and his spine curves off the bed and his heels dig into the mattress and he couldn't form a coherent sentence if his kingdom depended on it. His cock is drooling a mess onto his own stomach and Bohdi hasn't touched it, hasn't so much as brushed it, and Morgan is already dangerously close to an edge he did not expect to be anywhere near this soon.

"Bohdi, Bohdi, I can't, I'm going to⁠—"

Bohdi pulls his mouth away but keeps his fingers moving, curling them against that spot in a slow, maddening rhythm, and looks up at him with dark eyes and swollen lips and an expression of such focused, single-minded devotion that Morgan loses his breath entirely.

"Not yet," Bohdi says.

"You can't just tell me not to⁠—"

"That's exactly what I'm doing, my prince."

Morgan grits his teeth and grabs the headboard above his head with both hands and holds on for dear life while Bohdi takes him apart from the inside. He twists his fingers, spreads them, works him open with the kind of attention Morgan has only ever received in fantasies. He alternates between the slick drag of his fingers and the flat of his tongue until Morgan is incoherent and writhing, his body slicked with sweat, his hips rolling in desperate little movements he can't control, and every sound coming out of his mouth is some broken variation of Bohdi's name.

He is ruined. He is absolutely, catastrophically ruined, and Bohdi hasn't even fucked him yet.

When Bohdi finally pulls his fingers free Morgan makes a sound of such abject loss that he would be mortified by it if he had any capacity left for mortification. "Get in me, please, for the love of—" is all he can manage, hands reaching blindly for Bohdi's shoulders, his arms, any part of him.

Bohdi catches one of his wrists and kisses the inside of it, startlingly gentle given that his chin is wet, and says, "Turn over for me."

Morgan blinks up at him, dazed. "You just put me on my back⁠—"

"Changed my mind. I want you like this and then I want to see your face when you come." He says it plainly, as though it's reasonable, as though Morgan's heart isn't trying to evacuate his chest. "Turn over."