Page 19 of Setting the Break

"You want to watch?" His voice comes out higher than he intends, slightly strangled, and he hates it.

"Mmhmm." Bohdi hums it into the air between them, easy and certain, and sits back further. Settles his weight. His hands come to rest on his own thighs, relaxed, in no hurry at all for the show to begin. The firelight plays across his chest and the tattoos on his forearms, and he is hard behind the laces of his trousers, and he is the picture of patience, like he could sit here all night, like he has nothing in the world to do but wait for Morgan to give him what he wants.

Morgan is flustered. He is genuinely, thoroughly flustered in a way he has not been in years. The fact that Bohdi can see it, can see the heat in his cheeks and the unsteady rhythm of his breathing and the way his hands do not know what to do with themselves, makes it worse. He is a man who trades in composure. Composure is his weapon and his shield and the thing he reaches for when everything else fails. Bohdi has just stripped it off him as efficiently as he stripped off his trousers, and Morgan is lying here naked and hard and blushing to his collarbones while Bohdi sits on his heels and looks at him.

"Is this your first time?" Bohdi asks, voice light and teasing.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. The look he gives Bohdi could strip the bark off every tree in this clearing.

He shifts. One foot plants flat on the bedroll, knee bent; the other leg falls open, shameless, because if Bohdi wants a show then Morgan is going to give him one. He holds Bohdi’s gaze and refuses to break it, refuses to look away, refuses to give him the satisfaction of a flinch. Oil-slick fingers reach down between his own thighs and he presses one against his hole.

The first press hitches his breath. He is tight, and the angle is wrong doing it to himself, wrist bent, knuckles aching. But the oil is thick and warm and his body remembers. The finger slides in past the ring of muscle, slowly, to the second knuckle. His head tips back. His lips part. A thin breath escapes him, not quite a sound and not quite silence.

He is acutely, viciously aware that Bohdi is watching.

He has touched himself before. In the dark of his own chambers, efficiently, as a means to an end. He has never done it with an audience. He has never done it knowing someone is cataloguing every micro-expression that crosses his face, tracking the hitch in his breathing, watching the way his thigh tenses and his stomach contracts and his cock twitches when his finger slides deeper. The awareness prickles across his skin, hotter than the fire and sharper. Every sensation is amplified by being observed. Every breath is a confession.

And it is turning him on so badly he can barely think.

His cock lies hard against his stomach, the head shining and already wet, a smear of precome shining on the skin of his belly. He can feel himself clenching around his own finger, that involuntary greedy squeeze, and Bohdi’s eyes on him have weight and heat and pull. He works the finger deeper, slow, the oil easing the way, and a sound slips out of him, a thin caught thing, barely there, and he hears Bohdi exhale.

That exhale. Just breath. Just air leaving Bohdi’s lungs. But it carries the texture of want, and it crosses the three feet between them and lands against Morgan’s skin, and he feels it everywhere.

He pulls out and pushes back in with two fingers.

His breath fractures. The stretch burns, the good burn, the one that lives right on the edge of too much. He scissors his fingers and feels his hole give, softening, opening around the intrusion, the rim stretching slick and shiny around his knuckles. His hips shift against the bedroll. His other hand grips the edge of the fabric, knuckles pale. The fire crackles beside them and the horses shift in the dark and Morgan is lying in the woods with two of his own fingers buried in his ass and Bohdi three feet away with a focus that is memorizing every detail, and the exposure of it, the sheer raw vulnerability, makes his cock leak a fat bead of precome that slides down the shaft and pools against his stomach.

Bohdi’s gaze tracks it. Morgan sees him track it. Sees the way Bohdi’s eyes follow that slow wet trail across his skin, sees the way his jaw tightens, the way the tendons in his forearms flex where his hands grip his own thighs. Sees, too, the heavy line of Bohdi’s cock straining against the fabric, unmistakable even in firelight.

He is getting to Bohdi. The knowledge is a spark in the dark and a familiar thrill, because Morgan has always loved getting under this man’s skin and has made it a discipline, a sport, an art form, and it steadies him. It grounds him in the thing he knows how to do. He knows how to perform. He knows how to be watched. He has been watched his entire life.

But every other time Bohdi has watched him, Morgan has been able to share the stage, to push back, to bite, to pull Bohdi’s focus toward something they were doing together. This is Morgan alone with his own hand, making sounds he cannot control, and the performance is collapsing into something real despite his best efforts to keep it theatrical.

He pulls his fingers out and pushes them in again, deeper, and twists. His hips roll down to meet his hand. A sound spills out of him, not the thin controlled thing from before but something fuller and more ragged, something that tastes of need. His eyes have fallen closed. He had not realized. He opens them and finds Bohdi sitting exactly where he was, still watching, and the composure on Bohdi’s face has cracked, fine fractures spreading through it. His chest is flushed. His breathing has gone uneven. His hands on his thighs are no longer relaxed, his fingers digging in. The effort of not moving, of not crossing the three feet of ground between them and putting his hands on Morgan, is visible in every line of his body.

“Add another,” Bohdi says, and his voice has dropped into the register Morgan feels in his stomach, low and rough and fraying at the edges.

Morgan bites his lip. His fingers are two deep inside himself and his cock is dripping and his face is burning and Bohdi is sitting there giving him instructions as though this is a training exercise, and what remains of Morgan’s dignity rears up one final time.

“You can watch quietly,” Morgan says. His voice is thinner than he wants it to be, breathier, but the tartness is still there, the bite. He holds Bohdi’s gaze, determined to keep some measure of control over a situation that has thoroughly gotten away from him.

Bohdi laughs. The sound is warm and low and entirely unbothered, not even slightly threatened by Morgan’s resistance and, if anything, charmed by it.

“Come on,” Bohdi says. “I know you can take one more.”

Morgan’s cock leaks. Another bead wells up and slides down and the twitch is visible, his cock jerking against his stomach in direct traitorous response to Bohdi’s voice, and there is no hiding it and no pretending it did not happen, because Bohdi is watching and Bohdi saw, and Bohdi grins, proven right about something he already knew.

Morgan adds a third finger.

His back arches off the bedroll. The stretch is enormous, three of his own fingers pressed tight together and slicked with oil, pushing past the resistance of muscle that clenches and flutters and then slowly, slowly gives. His rim burns around them, stretched taut and shiny, and he can feel every ridge of his own knuckles dragging inside. His mouth falls open. A moan spills out of him, full and unguarded. It is loud, louder than any sound he has ever made during sex, louder than he has ever allowed himself to be, because there is no one to hear it. There is no guard outside the door. There is no wall thin enough to carry sound. There is only the fire and the trees and the dark and Bohdi, and the freedom of it is dizzying and intoxicating and almost frightening.

He hears himself and does not stop. Does not muffle it. Does not bite it back or press his face into a pillow or clamp his teeth on his own knuckle the way he has done every other time, and the sound that comes out of him is the real sound, the one he actually makes, and it is needier and more wrecked than he ever would have admitted.

He works the three fingers in. He is up to his knuckles, the stretch white-hot, his hole working and releasing around the intrusion in rhythmic waves, greedy and reluctant in the same breath. His legs will not stay where he puts them. His other hand has left the bedroll and is fisted against his own chest, nails digging into his palm. He is panting, short punched-out breaths that fog faintly in the cold air, and his hips are rolling, pressing down onto his own hand, fucking himself on his fingers, chasing the building heat.

He finds the angle. His fingers curl against that spot and his whole body jolts, a sharp electric pulse that shoots up his spine, and the sound that punches out of him is startled and raw and not a word at all. His hips buck. His cock drags against his stomach and the precome smears in a wet streak across his skin.

He is working himself open in tight desperate strokes now, chasing the sparking heat that builds and builds low in his gut, his hole wet and obscene around his own hand.