Page 72 of Fought it Through the Teeth

Morgan breathes. It comes out shaky and wet and not at all controlled, and Bohdi presses in further, and Morgan takes it, takes all of it. When Bohdi is fully seated inside him, Morgan makes a sound that is older than words, pulled from a place below language, raw and unprocessed, and it vibrates against Bohdi's throat where Morgan has buried his face.

They stay that way for a moment. Just breathing. Just existing, pressed together, joined, the full weight of what they are doing settling over them, quiet and total.

Then Morgan shifts his hips. Just fractionally. Just enough to change the angle and send a white spike of sensation up Bohdi's spine, and Bohdi's hand tightens in Morgan's hair and Morgan makes that sound again, that broken, formless, perfect sound, and the stillness shatters.

Bohdi fucks him, hard, deep, thorough, with one hand fisted in the sheets beside Morgan's head and the other clenched onto his slender shoulder, holding him steady so Bohdi can watch his face. And Morgan's face is a ruin. It is the most honest thing Bohdi has ever seen him wear. Every mask stripped. Every layer of composure and control and careful, calculated presentation burned away by the simple, annihilating fact of Bohdi inside him, and what is left is Morgan, raw, bare, desperate, beautiful.

Morgan's legs wrap tighter around his waist. His back arches off the mattress, a bow of muscle and bone, the line of his throat exposed and vulnerable, and Bohdi presses his mouth to that throat and tastes salt and feels the vibration of the sounds Morgan can't muffle anymore. The bed creaks beneath them, rhythmic and damning, and the headboard knocks against the stone wall with every thrust.

"Quiet," Bohdi says against his skin. "Or everyone in the Keep is going to know how hot I get you."

"Whose fucking fault is that?" Morgan hisses.

Bohdi adjusts the angle. Drives deeper. Hits the spot he found with his fingers, and Morgan's whole body clenches and the sound he makes is decidedly not quiet.

"I said⁠—"

"I heard what you said." Morgan's voice is wrecked. Shattered glass and gravel. "I'm choosing to — ah — ignore you."

Bohdi puts his hand over Morgan's mouth.

Morgan bites his palm.

Bohdi thrusts harder, punishingly, and Morgan's eyes roll shut and the bite becomes a moan muffled against Bohdi's hand, hot and wet. Bohdi feels it in his teeth and his spine and the base of his cock and the place behind his ribs where Morgan has taken up permanent residence without asking permission.

The rhythm builds. Bohdi's hips driving forward. The obscene, wet sound of their bodies together, skin and oil and heat, filling the room with evidence that would have been damning to anyone within earshot. Morgan's heels dig into the small of Bohdi's back, pulling him deeper with every thrust, and Bohdi's shoulder screams and his bad leg burns. He does not care about any of it, because Morgan is falling apart beneath him and the sight of it is worth every pain he has ever earned.

"Close," Morgan gasps against his palm. "Bohdi — I'm⁠—"

He knows because he can feel it, the trembling that has moved from Morgan's thighs into his entire body, the rhythmic clenching around Bohdi's cock that is tightening with every thrust, the desperation in the way Morgan's fingers claw at his back. Bohdi releases Morgan's mouth and grips his hip instead, changes the angle one final degree, the degree that matters, the one that makes Morgan's body seize, and drives in deep and stays.

Morgan shatters.

His whole body locks, legs, arms, spine, every muscle contracting at once, and the sound he makes is bitten off against Bohdi's shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle there, sharp enough to draw blood, as his cock pulses between their bodies untouched. Bohdi feels the wet heat of Morgan's release paint his stomach, feels the rhythmic clench of Morgan's body around him, and it pulls Bohdi under.

He buries himself to the hilt and comes.

The orgasm hits him from the base of his spine. He spills inside him in long, shuddering pulses, his face pressed to the curve of Morgan's neck, his breath coming in harsh, broken gasps that he cannot control and does not try to.

They stay tangled together in the twisted sheets, Bohdi still buried inside him, Morgan's legs still locked around his waist. Their breathing slows in tandem. Morgan's teeth release Bohdi's shoulder and his lips press to the mark they've made.

"Still alive?" Bohdi murmurs.

"Questionable." Morgan's voice is gutted. Completely and utterly gutted, hoarse and raw and soft in a way that Morgan's voice is never soft in daylight. "These sheets are unsalvageable."

"Well, considering everyone in this corridor probably heard you begging me to fuck you⁠—"

"I never beg for anything."

Bohdi almost chokes. "Your highness, that is a bald-faced lie and you know it."

Morgan huffs a laugh against his shoulder. "You're supposed to keep my secrets, Bohdi."

Bohdi kisses his hair and smiles.

Someone knocks on the door.

They freeze.