Page 73 of Setting the Break

It is slow and deep. A body being opened for the second time in one night, and Morgan is making sounds to match it, low and continuous and broken, his hand on Bohdi's hip gripping hard enough to bruise.

Bohdi mouths at his neck, his jaw, the soft place behind his ear. He finds the bruise he made in the bath and presses his lips to it and sucks again and Morgan cries out, sharp, his hole tightening, and the squeeze pushes more of him out around the shaft. Bohdi groans against his skin. He reaches around and finds Morgan already hard, dripping onto the sheets, and when Bohdi wraps his hand around him Morgan bucks into his fist and then back onto his cock and the motion pushes the last of the air out of both of them.

"You," Bohdi says against his throat, his voice gone to gravel and ruin, "are going to kill me."

"Mutual," Morgan gasps, and then Bohdi shifts the angle and hits the spot and Morgan folds forward onto his shoulder and the noise he makes is not language. The sound that tears out of him is raw. His hole bears down and Bohdi fucks him through it, feeling him give and grip. Morgan is shaking, shaking, his hand white-knuckled on Bohdi's hip, his cock leaking over Bohdi's fist in a steady stream.

"Close," Morgan chokes. "Already. Bohdi, I'm already⁠—"

"I know." Bohdi can feel it. The rhythmic clenching, the way his cock is kicking, the way his body is drawing tighter and tighter. "I know. I can feel you." He strokes him faster and fucks him deeper and presses his face into Morgan's neck and breathes him in.

Morgan comes with a sound that breaks in the middle of itself. He arches, and holds there, and spills over Bohdi's fist in pulsing ropes, and Bohdi follows him over with a hoarse groan pressed into his shoulder, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing, spending into a body that is already full of him. He can feel it being pushed out by every pulse of his release, more than Morgan can hold, running down his thighs, and Morgan is moaning and trembling and gripping him and taking it, taking all of it, and neither of them stops for a long time.

They come down shaking. Bohdi stays inside him. He does not pull out. He cannot make himself. He wraps both arms around Morgan and holds him tight against his chest and stays buried in him, softening in that ruined heat, and Morgan is breathing in long, ragged pulls and holding Bohdi's arms against his chest and not letting go.

Eventually the shaking stops. Eventually their breathing comes back to something like normal. Bohdi eases out, gently. The sheets are destroyed. There is come on Morgan's thighs and on Bohdi's cock and between them where they press together, and neither of them moves to clean it.

Bohdi pulls him close. Morgan sinks back into him, boneless and wrecked, and Bohdi wraps around him from behind and presses his mouth to the top of his spine and holds on.

The fire has gone to ash. The room is cold except where they are, which is a furnace, sweat-damp and radiating heat.

They are quiet for a long time. Bohdi's hand is spread flat on Morgan's chest, over his heart, and he can feel it going, fast at first, then slower, then slow.

"I don't like being a secret," Morgan says.

He says it very quietly, into the dark space in front of him. There is no accusation in it anywhere. There is no pressure and no ultimatum. He says it once and then he does not say anything else, and he does not turn around to see how it lands.

Bohdi tenses.

He does not mean to. It happens before he has decided anything at all. His arm goes tight across Morgan's chest and his shoulders lock and his breath stops for a second, and Morgan is lying pressed against him from shoulder to heel, and there is no possible way he did not feel it.

Morgan does not say anything.

Bohdi lies there with his heart going hard and does not say anything either. There is too much in his head at once.

The quiet goes on for much too long.

"I'm not going to ask that of you any longer," Bohdi says finally.

He means it the only way it can be meant. He means it with everything in him.

Morgan goes still in his arms. Not the stillness of sleep or of settling. It is the stillness that comes after a blow has landed and before the body has worked out where. He does not turn around. He does not move at all. Bohdi feels the tension come into him all at once, every muscle in his back and shoulders drawing tight against Bohdi's chest, and then Morgan exhales. It is shaky. It is not even, it is not controlled, and it is not quiet enough to hide.

"Oh," Morgan says.

One word. Barely voiced. It comes out of him aimed at the far wall.

Bohdi understands what is happening.

It arrives all at once and it is sickening. The silence. His own silence, too long, with his body rigid against Morgan's back. And what Morgan heard was not a promise to stop hiding him. What Morgan heard was a man telling him there would not be anything left to hide.

He thinks Bohdi is ending it.

And Bohdi can feel, in the set of Morgan's shoulders against his chest, that he is not even surprised. There is no shock in the tension. There is something worse. There is an awful, practiced bracing, the kind a body learns only by expecting a blow for a very long time. Some part of him has been waiting for exactly this.

He tightens his arm across Morgan's chest and hauls him in, hard, flush against him, and wraps his other arm around him too and locks him there. Morgan's breath hitches. His hands stop moving. They stay where they are, one on Bohdi's forearm and one half-raised, and they are shaking.

Bohdi puts his mouth against Morgan's neck. Against the skin just below his ear, where the pulse is hammering, and he speaks into him.