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motherismotheringggg · 1 month ago

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stuck like honey 🍯

summary - somewhat a continuation from the last one but you don’t necessarily have to have read it to get this (but you can ofc <3); the reader and bo are, simply put, in love and stuck to each other like honey; HEAVILY influenced by beyoncé’s “pure/honey” and “sweet honey buckiin” (i linked the exact parts of the songs im talking about)

type - black femme! reader x the pleaser, the eater bo chow

tags/warnings - half-asleep-but-consensual f!ngering, half-asleep-but-consensual sex, semi-public f!ngering, food play, sex!!!

author's note: well well well, i didnt anticipate writing another bo chow fic but here we are. i also have been obsessed with beyoonce (as you can see by my reblogs) for basically all of my life but since renaissance i’ve been BEYHIVE down. and i ofc love so many songs from renaissance and cowboy carter but the two HONEY soundtracks are absolutely my faves. and i just know that despite everyone in that movie being absolutely horned - i just know that bo and grace were making LOVE honey!!! he absolutely gives "foreplay starts before we're in the bedroom" type of man

It was just past seven when Bo unlocked the front door of the store and flipped the sign to “open”. The rising heat of the morning clung to the windows like sweat, streaking long gold ribbons across the floorboards. Outside, the air was thick with dew and the smell of fresh dirt. Inside, it was quiet, still, almost sacred.

You were curled up on a stool behind the counter with your lips parted around a slice of peach Bo had cut for you with a pocketknife. You watched him move between shelves with his slow, deliberate grace, shirt clinging soft to his back, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder like he’d been born behind a counter. He was humming something low under his breath, while he took inventory of stock.

You always offered to help set up in the mornings. Sometimes you'd already be up, sleeves rolled and halfway through organizing a shelf before he even flipped the sign. But without fail, he'd come up behind you, arms around your waist or hands gentle on your shoulders, and guide you right back to your seat.

“Now, you just sit pretty,” he’d murmur, that soft southern inflection warm in your ear, “and let that face bring the folks in. Your company’s worth more than any straightened jars or balanced books.”

You’d roll your eyes, lips twitching into a smirk as you sank back into your seat. But the truth was… you loved it.

Loved being looked after. Loved not having to worry. Loved the quiet certainty of being someone worth tending to.

Ever since that night at the juke joint, things had shifted—but not fast. In fact it was very gentle. Like everything Bo did. The kind of shift that rooted deep in the bones. You hadn’t just fallen into bed together, you’d grown into each other, like vines. Morning and night, breath and skin. It didn’t take long before his place felt like yours too, and you’d stopped leavin’ altogether.

Bo acted like you were the answer to all the problems that could ever plague him.

Every morning, before the sun even thought about rising, Bo reached for you like it was instinct.

His arm would snake around your waist beneath the quilt, warm and strong, pulling you back into the curve of his chest. He’d bury his nose in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only air worth having, lips brushing soft kisses across your skin, slow and sweet.

And then you’d feel him.

That heat, that weight pressing firm against your backside. It was unmistakable, almost insistent. But there was never any rush to it. Bo didn’t take; he asked without asking, with his hands moving like praise, his body telling you he craved you before his mouth ever did.

Your legs parted without thinking. Hips rolled back to meet his hand. And you’d breathe out a sleepy little moan that made him groan right behind you.

“You still mine, ain’t you?” he’d whisper, voice rough with sleep and want, his lips dragging just beneath your ear.

You’d nod, half-lost in the haze, and maybe whisper back, “Mmhmm, all yours…”

And that was all he needed.

His fingers would stroke you slow, worshipful, drawing honeyed heat from deep inside you. He’d murmur into your shoulder — things like “so sweet, baby,” and “lord, you feel like heaven” — and he meant every word. When he finally pushed inside you, it wasn’t hurried or greedy. It was deep. Full. A perfect kind of pressure that made you press your forehead into the pillow and breathe his name like a prayer.

Bo held your hand through it every time, lacing your fingers together as he moved behind you — steady, strong, so achingly good. His other hand gripped your waist, guiding you back into every thrust, and when he came, it was always with his lips pressed to your shoulder or the back of your neck, whispering how much he loved you.

After, he’d stay inside you, just holding you, letting the morning stretch between you like warm molasses.

Then he’d rise and go to the bathroom — but not before settin’ a kiss on your temple and sayin’, “I’ll warm the bath for you baby.”

————

Now, in the calm of the store, with the world beginning to stir outside and the light catching on the tin cans lining the shelves, you watched him move—watched the way his fingers brushed dust from the tops of canned peaches, how he readjusted the crates so everything lined up just right.

And even in that, even in the simplicity of him tending to his store and charming customers, he made it feel like a love letter.

He caught you looking and gave you that smile—the lazy, crooked one that made your stomach swoop like a girl catchin’ feelings for the first time. He didn’t say a word. Just wandered over, casual as anything, and let his hands settle on your thighs where you stood at the register.

It wasn’t a show. It was a habit.

The kind of touch that came second nature to him now—his palms finding your body like they belonged there. His fingers gave one slow, absent-minded squeeze before sliding off, brushing the hem of your skirt on their way down like he hadn’t even realized he’d done it.

When the store was quiet and the customers were distracted, he’d lean in close like he was just passing behind you—but his lips would catch yours on the way, a soft, barely-there kiss. Quick. Familiar. Like breathin’. And when he pulled back, his hand would linger at your waist, or trail down your arm in a light sweep that felt like nothing until it left you wanting.

Sometimes, he’d reach around you just to grab something from the shelf, but his fingers would always graze your hip on the way. Or he’d duck behind the counter to restock something, and let his shoulder press into your thigh a little longer than necessary before he stood.

It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone but him.

Bo just needed to touch you. Little reminders through the day—you’re here, you’re his, this is real.

And every time, it made you burn a little under the skin.

“You bored yet?” he asked, the low rasp of his voice, leaning down to your ear behind the register.

“No,” you said, your voice just above a whisper. “I’m quite entertained watchin’ you.”

He grinned, crooked and pleased. “You better. I like bein’ watched by you.”

“Thought you had work to do,” you said with a mock seriousness.

Bo leaned in close, lips grazing your ear. “M’tendin’ to the most important thing in the store.”

You deeply inhaled with a smirk, and you swatted at his chest, but your skin burned beneath your dress where his hand had been.

————

The sun was low behind the trees when you slipped into the back room of the store. The warm amber light filtered through the slats in the windows, painting long shadows across the shelves, the sacks of grain, the dusty floor. The hum of the day had quieted into something still. Peaceful. Soft.

You rolled your sleeves and leaned over the little table Bo had fixed up for you. The surface was scattered with your jars—some sealed, some half-filled—each one glinting with thick, golden honey. You were working on a new infusion: thyme and orange peel. Just a pinch of clove. Something to make a summer drink taste like memory.

Beekeeping had always been a quiet sort of joy. Even in Chicago, where green things were few and far between, you’d find a park to sit in, preferably near flower patches and lean in to hear the buzzing of the bees. It reminded you of your grandmother’s backyard, of chasing them barefoot through dandelions and clover while your aunties hollered for you to stop. Back then you thought the bees were gold-laced messengers. Even now, it felt like they had secrets only you could hear.

Back home, when the drunks packed into your bar and poured themselves out at your counter, you’d offer up little drinks sweetened with your flavored honey—lavender, citrus, rose. Men with callused hands and broken teeth would knock back whiskey and then blink in surprise at how soft it went down. You liked giving them something that made ‘em pause. Made ‘em smile.

Here in the Delta, the store had a different kind of rhythm—but you still found time to tinker. The back room smelled sweet from your jars and the herbs drying near the window. The glass glowed warm in the evening light. You were hunched over, stirring with a small wooden stick, muttering to yourself about balance and sweetness, when you felt him.

You always felt Bo before you saw him.

He crept up behind you, even with his work shoes he was still quiet as a breeze, and slid his hands around your waist—warm palms meeting your apron strings. You didn’t jump, didn’t even flinch. Just smiled and kept stirring.

“What you workin’ on back here, honey girl?” he asked, voice soft like it was soaked in molasses.

You swatted his hand with your rag without looking. “It’s a surprise,” you said, tone playfully stern. “You’ll ruin it if you keep hoverin’.”

Bo chuckled under his breath, lips brushing your ear. “You know I hate surprises,” he whispered, kissin’ just under your jaw. “I get impatient…needy.” The words sent a jolt through your spine.

You shook your head but you were already smiling.

He kissed your cheek, soft and slow, like he had all night to do just that. Then he pulled back, after you swatted his hand away for what felt like the the millionth time. Sighing like a man who’d just been denied his favorite meal, and drifted out of the room, the old bell at the front jingling as another customer came in.

You kept working.

Every so often, you’d catch him peeking in. Just a glance. Just to see you there, sleeves rolled and lips pursed, leaning over your jars like a scientist.

————

When the sun finally dipped behind the treeline and Bo said goodbye to his last customer, flipped the sign to Closed, wiped his hands on his apron and made his way back to you.

You didn’t hear him this time.

You just felt the press of his chest against your back, his hands massaged your shoulders while he planted a soft kiss on it. Then again. And again, right above the seam of your dress.

“Now why you still back here keepin’ secrets from me?” he murmured, his voice a low hum that buzzed straight through your ribs. “You know that hurts my feelin’s.”

You let out a soft laugh, breath hitching as his mouth grazed your neck. “And you know I just hate to have you wait for anything,” you said, feigning a pout as you continued to work trying to keep your composure.

Bo chuckled against your skin, his voice all gravel and honey. “Exactly,” he murmured. “You know I need you, baby. Can’t have you makin’ me wait too long—I get real pitiful.”

You smirked, as you wrapped up your final jar. “Oh, I know. You damn near fall apart the minute I’m outta reach.”

He hummed, lips finding your shoulder again again. “Can’t help it. You spoil me somethin’ terrible.”

His hands sliding lower, gripping at your hips like he was gonna pull you into his skin. “I’ve been good all day. Haven’t even touched you proper.”

“You been touchin’ me all damn day,” you said, with a low breathy laugh.

Bo didn’t argue.

He just kissed you harder, moving up to your neck

The more he begged, the more he touched—slow at first, like he didn’t want to spook the moment, but it wasn’t long before his hands were everywhere. One slipped around your waist, the other tracing the dip of your spine through your dress, fingers catching on fabric like he was tryin’ to memorize the shape of you blind.

His mouth moved tenderly, almost worshipful—brushing over your shoulder blades in featherlight passes, lips parting against the soft dip between them. You felt the heat of him rising off his chest, his breath warming your skin wherever he hovered.

He kissed the side of your neck, just beneath your jaw, and you shivered. But it was when his teeth grazed that tender spot behind your ear—that little place only he ever seemed to find on the first try—that you moaned.

Soft, unguarded, needy.

He exhaled like it was a gospel chorus. Like that one sound had been sitting under his ribs all day, begging to be set free.

“Lord baby,” he muttered, his voice thick. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

And still, his hands kept moving—turning you around while one slid lower to the hem of your dress, his fingertips slipping just beneath, trailing fire in their wake. You fell into him without even meaning to, your body answering him before your mouth could.

Bo always knew how to touch you like that—like every inch of you was something sacred he had the privilege to worship.

Then, without breakin eye contact, he wrapped those strong arms around the backs of your thighs and lifted you clean off the floor. You gave a little squeal, more out of surprise than protest, hands clutching his shoulders as he set you down gently on the wooden table behind you. Your knees fell open around him without thinking. The wood was cool beneath your thighs.

“Bo,” you warned, breath shaky but your voice not unkind.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I’ll be good.”

And he was.

His hands were steady as they slid up the inside of your thighs, thumbs pressing slow, worshipful circles into the soft flesh. His lips never left you for long—mouthing along your collarbone, the swell of your chest, your jaw. When he reached the hem of your panties, he kissed you like it was a blessing, then eased a finger beneath the fabric.

You gasped. You always did that first time—like he caught you off guard, even when you were expecting him.

He didn’t rush.

His fingers slipped over your folds, warm and soaked and needy, and he smiled against your skin like he was the luckiest man alive.

“Been sittin’ sweet for me all day, huh?” he murmured, voice thick with want. “You were waitin’. I know you were.”

You just nodded, biting your lip, head falling back when one thick finger pushed into you—slow, sure, steady.

Your hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders. He kept his gaze locked on you, watching your mouth fall open, your thighs tighten around him.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “So damn gorgeous like this… all mine.”

He added a second finger, curling them just right, just deep enough to make your hips buck forward. He kissed the corner of your mouth as you moaned, slow and sweet like he was drinkin’ in the sound.

And through it all, his thumb worked in slow, practiced circles over your clit—each touch more careful than the last, like he was tryin’ to make it last, like he wanted to feel you unravel slow.

“You gon’ come for me, baby?” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek.

“Bo—” you choked out.

“Shh, I got you. Let me take care of it.”

And you did.

You came with a trembling cry, his name spilling out like a secret, clutchin’ at him like he was the only thing keepin’ you steady.

He didn’t let go—not for a second.

Just held you while you shook, kissing you like you were the sunrise and he was afraid to blink.

You were still breathing hard, thighs trembling as he buried his face in your neck, lips warm and smiling against your skin. One of his hands stayed at your waist, the other smoothing gentle strokes along your thigh like he was trying to soothe the very pleasure he’d just coaxed out of you.

“That good, huh?” he muttered, a little smug in his grin. “Knew that sweet honey didn’t come from just the bees.”

You gave a breathless laugh and lightly smacked his chest. “You’re somethin’ else.”

————

The kitchen was warm with the scent of lavender and honey-glazed cornbread, the windows open to let in the last breath of twilight. Cicadas murmured outside, that slow, golden hum of a Southern evening wrapping around the house like a quilt.

You watched Bo from the stove, one hand resting on your hip as he leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table—bare forearms crossed behind his head, tea glass raised to his lips. He took a sip and let out a long, appreciative hum that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Baby,” he said, drawling like he couldn’t help it, “this right here? You done made somethin’ special. This honey’s somethin’ serious.”

You smiled, trying to hide how pleased that made you. “You say that about everything I make.”

He grinned, lazy and lopsided. “Yeah, well. That don’t make it any less true.”

You brought over the rest of dinner—simple stuff, but made with love: roasted chicken, greens, biscuits still warm from the oven. Bo dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days, and every few bites he went back to the tea, eyes rolling a little each time like the sweetness was knocking him out cold.

“Swear,” he said through a mouthful, “if you put this honey on the shelves, I’m gon’ have to clear out a whole section just for you. Might not ever see you again—you’ll be too busy makin’ magic in the back room, tryna keep up with demand.”

You laughed, your chest blooming warm. “Don’t start with me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, pointing at your jar with the back of his spoon. “This right here? You sittin’ on gold, baby.”

You stood up to clear the plates, but Bo wasn’t ready to let you go just yet. His hand shot out and caught you by the wrist—gentle, but sure—and before you knew it, he was pulling you down into his lap.

“Bo—”

“Shh,” he whispered, wrapping both arms around you like he had all the time in the world. “Just sit with me.”

His chest was warm beneath your palms, and his heartbeat, steady and slow, beat against your side like a drum that only played for you. His cheek rested against your shoulder, lips brushing the skin where your collar slipped wide. That low, humming thing in his throat—half sigh, half purr—sent a ripple through you that you didn’t bother hiding.

“I’m real proud of you,” he said suddenly, voice quiet but thick. “Not just ‘cause this honey’s so good I’m ready to marry the jar, but ‘cause you got your hands in somethin’ real. Somethin’ yours. I see how hard you work, and I just…” He trailed off, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “I love watchin’ you love on somethin’.”

Your heart stuttered.

He meant every word.

Your cheeks flushed as you cupped his face, “Well aren’t you quite the charmer.”

Bo took your hand, placing a kiss on the back of it and up your arm.

You giggled, nuzzling your face into his neck.

Then he pointed the honey jar still sittin’ on the table. “Is this your favorite one?”

You paused. “Honestly? I haven’t even tried it yet.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“I been so busy makin’ ‘em I just… never got around to tastin’.”

Bo clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Lord have mercy, woman, that’s the saddest thing I heard all day.” He reached across the table, plucked the jar into his hand, and twisted the top off with a satisfying pop.

“I’m fixin’ that,” he murmured.

Bo held the jar in one hand, fingers gripping the glass like it was delicate and sacred. He tilted it slightly, letting the lavender honey catch the kitchen light. It glowed gold and viscous, swirling with faint flecks of flower petals, the scent faint but heady—sweet, earthy, calming.

Without looking away from you, he dipped two fingers inside, slow and deliberate. The thick honey wrapped around him like silk, sliding over the rough pads of his fingers until they were coated in gold. He lifted them back up with the same patience he gave everything he touched.

Gone was the playful smirk. In its place, something hungrier bloomed. Heavy. Heated.

He didn’t speak. Just extended his hand to you, palm up, fingers glistening. The honey was already beginning to drip down the side of his knuckle, sticky and shining like it had a mind of its own.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t tease. Just waited—watching you like a man watching the sunrise, eyes fixed, jaw tight.

You leaned forward slowly, the air between you thick and warm. Your lips parted, and you let your tongue drag up the length of his finger—deliberately taking your time. The taste exploded across your mouth: floral and rich and deep, like the scent of a garden and summer heat soaked into sweet tea.

Bo’s breath hitched.

You didn’t stop there.

You took both fingers in your mouth and sucked gently, the honey melting between your tongue and the rough skin of his touch. Your eyes stayed locked on his the whole time—steady, intentional, watching the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed hard.

“Shit,” he muttered, low and gravely.

You felt the change in his body like a shift in the air—his hand twitching slightly, his legs parting just a little wider, the hard press of arousal starting to stir beneath his slacks. Still, he didn’t move to pull his fingers away. He just watched you, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, rough and hungry.

You smiled around his fingers, lips curling just enough for him to feel it.

Then you pulled off, slow, your mouth parting with a soft pop, a string of honey trailing between you before breaking. You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, eyes still smoldering.

Bo stared at you like a man starving. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, like he was trying to keep from acting on instinct alone.

His eyes flicked from your lips to your eyes, then back again—like he was trying to memorize the way you looked right before he ruined you.

Then he kissed you.

Deep. Slow. Starving.

Like he’d waited all damn day for it, like that little taste of honey on your tongue had cracked something open inside him. His mouth slanted over yours with heat and purpose, his hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you close, anchored to him like he’d drown if you pulled away.

You matched him, kiss for kiss, your fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, tugging him even closer until your chest was flush with his. You felt him—hard and straining beneath his slacks, pressed against the softness of your lower belly. So you shifted, tilting your hips just enough to let your warmth meet his need.

He groaned into your mouth.

Low and guttural. The sound vibrated between your ribs and settled straight between your thighs.

Bo pulled back just enough to drag his mouth across your jaw, down your neck, teeth grazing tender as he growled, “You tryin’ to make a fool of me, sugar? Huh?”

You gasped as his grip tightened at your waist, grounding you to the heat of him. “Just tryna taste what I made,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing.

Your lips grazed the column of his neck, laying soft, open-mouthed kisses along his skin as your hips rocked against his, slow and deliberate. Then, right at the shell of his ear, you whispered, “Figured you’d like it. You always did have a thing for sweet things…”

Bo chuckled—dark and low, the sound rumblin’ in his chest like thunder on the horizon. “Mmm,” he drawled, voice rough with want. “I do. But there’s somethin’ else sweet I been waitin’ to taste all damn day.”

In a swift moment, he slipped his hands under your thighs, gripped the backs with calloused palms, and lifted you like you were nothing but light.

You yelped, arms looping around his neck out of instinct. “Bo!”

“Shh,” he said, kissin’ just below your ear. “Ain’t droppin’ you. Would never.”

He carried you down the hall, each step slow and sure, your body pressed tight to his chest. You could feel the thrum of his heart through his shirt—fast and steady like a drumline in summer. The house smelled like lavender from the honey, sweat-sweet skin, and a little smoke from the stovetop, but all you could think about was the heat pulsing between your legs and the way Bo’s fingers flexed with every step, like he was reminding himself you were really there.

When he reached the bedroom, he nudged the door open with his foot and laid you down soft on the bed, his gaze never leaving yours.

You reached to shimmy out of your skirt, but his hands caught yours.

“Let me,” he rasped, voice low and heavy. “Please.”

There was something about the way he said it—like undressing you wasn’t a means to an end but a privilege.

You lifted your hips for him, slow and teasing, and he peeled the skirt down your thighs, kissing the inside of your knee as he did. His hands were big and dominant, slow to touch and slower to let go. Once the skirt was gone, he settled between your legs, kneeling on the bed in front of you like a man at an altar.

His fingers moved to your blouse, undoing each button with patience that burned. You reached out and started to undo his belt, desperate for friction, but he stilled your hands again with a soft laugh.

“Slow down, sugar,” he said, leanin’ forward to kiss the dip between your breasts. “I waited this long… don’t mind waitin’ a little more.”

Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the jar of honey.

You blinked. “Bo… what are doi—”

“Hush now,” he grinned. “Got plans.”

He twisted the lid off, dipped two fingers in slow, and drizzled a golden ribbon of honey across your stomach. The liquid was warm from his pocket, syrup-thick and shining in the low light. You shivered when it touched your skin.

Bo watched it trail, then leaned forward and licked the path clean—slow and messy, tongue dragging up your navel, his groan vibrating right into your belly.

You whimpered, head thrown back, breath catching as he reached behind you and unhooked your bra in one practiced sweep.

Your breasts sprang free, nipples already tight from anticipation—and the second they did, his mouth was on you.

He wrapped his lips around one nipple, sucking it deep, tongue flicking slow and wet. His other hand cupped your other breast, thumbing the peak until you arched up into him.

“God, Bo…” you moaned, fingers tangling in his hair.

He groaned in return, switching sides, lavishing the other nipple with the same tender hunger. His tongue was velvet, his mouth was heat, and he kept his rhythm steady, slow, like he was savoring you. Like your body was a story he meant to read cover to cover.

“Been thinkin’ about these all damn day,” he murmured between kisses, voice low and reverent. His breath fanned over your skin, warm and damp, making your nipples pebble even more as he suckled soft, then slow, then a little deeper—like he didn’t just want to make you feel good, but kept good.

You moaned, hand sliding into the tuft of hair at the nape of his neck, and he leaned into your touch like it soothed something in him. His fingers trailed down the sides of your waist, gentle and open, mapping every inch like he was afraid to miss a spot.

Then—when your breathing hitched just so—he pulled back and looked up at you, lips glistening, eyes molten.

“You still want me slow, baby?” he whispered, voice nearly cracking with need.

Your thighs trembled as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him up your body until your mouths met again—hot and hungry, tongues slow-dancing like they had all the time in the world. You could feel him, hard and thick against your core, still trapped in his boxers. Your hips rolled without thought, chasing the friction, and he gasped into your mouth.

“I want you close,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “I need you inside.”

Bo didn’t rush. He never did.

He kissed you once more—soft and deep—before leaning back on his knees, tugging off his shirt, then his slacks and boxers in one smooth motion. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, the tip wet with arousal. You swallowed hard. He was beautiful in the kind of way that made your breath hitch and your knees ache. His chest rose and fell in slow waves, all smooth brown skin stretched over a lean, muscled torso—cut just enough to show definition, the kind that came from real work, not vanity. His stomach flexed with each breath, a dusting of hair leading down to where you wanted him most.

Then his hands found your thighs, and he parted them slow.

“You always look so pretty like this,” he said, like he was telling you something you didn’t already know. “ Like your body was made to take me.”

You felt the blush burn up your chest as he lined himself up, brushing the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance with lazy circles that made you bite your lip.

And then—slowly, carefully—he pushed inside.

You both gasped at the stretch, at the way he filled you just right. He buried his face in your neck, his groan muffled against your skin as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your body welcomed him with ease, like it’d been waiting all day too.

Bo didn’t move at first. He just held you.

His arms slid under your back, cradling you close, and his lips found your temple as he stayed buried to the hilt. You could feel every throb of him, every twitch, every beat of his heart.

“You okay?” he whispered, barely audible.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes baby.”

He started to move, slow and deep, hips rocking into yours with a rhythm that felt like honey on a hot skillet—slow to start, but irresistible all the same. You whimpered at every stroke, nails raking softly down his back. He was thick and warm and so deep, hitting that perfect spot every time he rolled his hips.

Bo watched your face the entire time. His fingers brushed your cheek, your lips, your jaw. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?,” he muttered, “just so damn beautiful”, he whimpered out.

With every thrust, he kissed something—your mouth, your chest, your shoulder, your wrist. He whispered sweet nothings and sinful promises, murmuring “I got you, baby,” and “Let me take my time,” and “You feel so good I might lose my mind.”

You were both slick with sweat and shine, the scent of honey and skin clinging to the sheets as your moans blended with his. And when your thighs started to tremble, when that pressure built deep in your belly and your hands gripped his back like a lifeline, Bo knew.

He lifted your hips just slightly, angled his thrusts, and watched you fall apart with a cry of his name, clenching around him so tight it nearly undid him right then.

You could still feel the stick of honey between your stomachs, the pulse of your release echoing through your limbs. Bo’s fingers traced idle shapes along your spine, breath still ragged against your neck.

Then, you felt him shift—just enough to reach over the edge of the bed.

When he came back, the jar was in his hand again, nearly empty now, but he dipped two fingers in and held them to your lips with a sleepy grin.

“So…is this one your favorite?” he asked, voice low and sweet.

You took him in your mouth, slow and soft, and nodded as you licked him clean.

“Sweetest thing I ever tasted,” you murmured, and he pulled you closer like he’d never let you go.

Sticky. Sated. Glowing.

Wrapped up in each other ‘til the sun found you.

#all of my fics are absolutely my babies #but this one - combining my love of music and movies is just 😩🤌🏽#anyways enjoy #my BEST eater #bo chow #bo chow sinners #bo chow smut #bo chow x reader #bo chow x you #sinners smut #sinners fanfiction #sinners fic

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