Page 72 of Setting the Break

It goes straight through him.

Not Morgan naked. He has had Morgan naked. He has had him filthy and clean and furious and laughing and on his knees and on his back. The nakedness is not the new thing. The new thing is the weight of Morgan's sleeping hand on his arm in the room where Morgan is a prince and Bohdi is not supposed to be able to have him. The new thing is the ordinary fact of morning not having come yet and Bohdi still being here for it, in the one place where being here means something different than it does on the road. On the road they could pretend it was circumstance. Here it is a choice. Here it is a claim.

He wants this. He wants to wake up like this every night until he dies. He wants Morgan's bed to be the bed he belongs in. He wants the keep to know. He wants the sun to come up and find him still here.

The want is so total it stops his breath in his throat.

He lies there with his mouth against Morgan's neck and feels it unmake him. Three days of fear and relief and love all compacted into a single driving need, not just to be inside him but to keep him, to have this, to hold him down and take him apart and put him back together and then stay. Stay. Stay. The word beats in him with his pulse.

He turns his face into Morgan's neck and kisses him there.

It is not a decision so much as the only thing his body is willing to do. Open-mouthed and slow, up under the hinge of his jaw where the skin is thinnest, and back down to the bruise he put there in the bath. Morgan does not wake so much as surface. He makes a small sound, a wordless complaint about being disturbed. His head tips sideways on the pillow without his eyes opening at all, baring his throat, which is the most generous thing anybody has ever done for Bohdi in his life.

"Morgan." Bohdi's mouth is still on him. His voice comes out low and rough and barely there. "Can I have you?"

Morgan hums. It is a drowsy, unhurried sound with agreement and invitation and a little impatience all folded into it, and he shifts back against Bohdi's chest and still does not open his eyes.

"Say it properly."

"Mm. Yes." It is slurred and warm and entirely certain. "Yes. Whatever you want."

Bohdi kisses the bruise again and lets his teeth graze it, and Morgan sighs and gives up his weight against him, and that is the end of whatever restraint Bohdi was pretending to.

His hand slides down Morgan's side, slow, rib to waist to the sharp jut of hip, and then around, behind. He draws his fingers down the cleft of Morgan's ass, unhurried, and finds him.

The breath goes out of him.

Morgan is wet. Slick. Not with oil, not with anything Bohdi's hand has put there. With Bohdi's spend, still in him hours later, warm at his entrance, and when Bohdi presses the pad of his finger against the furl of him it gives under the pressure, obscene, proof of what they did in the bath.

Bohdi's cock kicks so hard against Morgan's ass that his hips jolt forward before he can stop them. His whole body goes taut. His breath is coming through his teeth and his heart is slamming and his hand is shaking where it rests between Morgan's thighs, one finger pressed against a hole that is swollen and soft and still full of him.

He presses in.

His finger sinks into Morgan with no resistance. None. Morgan's body opens for him immediately, warm and giving, and what Bohdi finds inside him makes his vision blur. Hot. Impossibly soft. The tight grip from the bath has gone slack, the muscle loose and giving, still holding the shape of him. He slides in to the second knuckle and Morgan's body simply takes it, no clench, no flutter, just heat and the obscene sound of what he left in there hours ago shifting around his finger.

A sound comes out of Bohdi that he does not recognize. Low, desperate, animal. He is so hard he aches. His cock is pressed against Morgan's ass and spilling steadily, a pulse he can feel each time his heart beats. The knowledge of what he is feeling is taking him apart faster than the feeling itself. Morgan is still stretched out from him. Still open. Hours later and his body has not closed back up, has not tightened, is still shaped to him, and Bohdi is going to lose his mind.

He adds a second finger and they slide in so easily. There is nothing to stretch. There is nothing to work open. Morgan's hole swallows his fingers to the last knuckle and clenches once, weakly, a flutter so faint it is barely there, and what it does around his knuckles when he curls them is the filthiest thing he has ever heard.

His cock twitches against Morgan's crease, hard enough to jerk, and he feels himself leak. A thick bead wells at the tip and drags a line down Morgan's skin. Bohdi's hips are moving on their own now, tiny rocking thrusts against nothing, his cock sliding along the curve of Morgan's ass while his fingers work inside him. He does not need to stretch him. He does not need to prepare him. Morgan is open and ready and still shaped around him, and Bohdi has not had this little command of himself since he was eighteen years old.

He pulls his fingers free and fits himself against Morgan's hole. The head of him nudges into that heat and he almost comes right there, almost finishes against his entrance before he even gets inside. Morgan is so open and so easy that the blunt press of him is already sinking in, the muscle giving way with no effort at all, and the first inch swallows him with a sound that is not skin on skin. It is liquid. It is the sound of a cock pushing into a body that is already full.

He manages. Barely. He grits his teeth and breathes and holds Morgan's hip and feeds himself in, and it is⁠—

It is nothing he has a word for.

Hot. Hotter than the bath. And slack. Utterly given over. Morgan's body has gone pliant in sleep, every last bit of tension wrung out of him. Inside he is silk and yielding, the walls of him barely gripping, just cradling, a pulsing heat that takes him in and holds him there. He sinks to the hilt and feels it settle around him, displaced, pushed out around the shaft and running down Morgan's thigh. The inside of Morgan is a clinging furnace that is gripping him so gently it makes his chest hurt.

Morgan comes further up out of it.

A noise comes out of him, low and thick with sleep, and his body shifts. He registers the fullness first. Bohdi feels it in the way his muscles engage, tightening around Bohdi's cock in a slow, drowsy pull that makes Bohdi groan into his hair. Then he registers the rest. His hips move, a tiny confused shift, and the slide of Bohdi's cock inside him makes a sound he will be thinking about for days, and Morgan goes very still.

"Bohdi," Morgan gasps. His voice is raw and barely there.

"You're still full of me." Bohdi can barely speak. He is buried to the hilt in a body so open around him he could weep. He rolls his hips, one slow grind, and everything inside Morgan shifts and Morgan shudders from head to toe. "You were still so wet. Stretched open. Still had my come inside you. I put my fingers in and you just—took them. Didn't even have to—" His voice breaks. "You were still shaped around me, Morgan."

The sound Morgan makes has no language in it. His hand comes back and grabs Bohdi's hip and pulls, dragging him deeper, and his body opens wider somehow, impossibly, and everything between them shifts. Morgan's back arches against Bohdi's chest and his head tips back and his throat is bared and Bohdi puts his mouth on it and tastes the salt of him and starts to move.