#john morrison

The air in the limousine was thick with the scent of your perfume and John's cologne, a familiar blend that usually signalled the ending of a long WWE road trip. You leaned against Cena's shoulder, your body humming with the residual adrenaline of watching him dominate at Elimination Chamber. But your mind, as it so often did, wandered to a different kind of athleticism - the fluid, rockstar grace of John Morrison.

"You're quiet," John murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

"Just tired," you lied, squeezing his hand.

He smiled, a secretive thing that didn't reach his eyes in the usual way. "I have a surprise. To celebrate."

The surprise was the Ivory Tower Suites, a five-star hotel that gleamed like a spaceship against the Phoenix skyline. You didn't check in at the lobby; a private elevator whisked you directly to the penthouse. Your heels sank into plush ivory carpet as you took in the panoramic city views, the chilled champagne, the rose petals leading from the doorway.

"John, this is too much," you breathed, turning to him.

He stood by the door, his silhouette massive and calm. "Nothing's too much for you. The best part's in the bedroom."

Your heart fluttered with a mix of love and curiosity. Pushing open the heavy oak door to the master suite, you expected silk sheets, maybe more petals.

You did not expect John Morrison.

He was on the king-sized bed, reclined against a mountain of pillows, gloriously, unbashedly naked. The low light sculpted his abdomen, the famous ropes of muscle in his arms. His shaggy hair was perfectly tousled and a slow, confident smile played on his lips. His eyes, dark and knowing, locked directly onto yours.

You gasped, your hand flying to your mouth and spun to look at your husband.

Cena had followed you in, closing the door softly. His expression was one of profound tenderness and a hint of smug satisfaction. "You think I don't notice?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "The way you watch his matches a little closer. How you rewind his entrances. You've wanted him for years, Y/N."

You were speechless, trembling, your gaze darting between your powerful, loving husband and the sensual fantasy laid out before you.

"It's okay," Cena said, stepping close to cradle your face. "He knows the rules. Tonight is for you. Every second of it. He's here to please you. And I'm here to watch... and to join when you want me to."

Morrison finally spoke, his voice a smooth, seductive baritone that sent a shiver down your spine. "The Shaman of Sexy is at your service, Y/N. No moves, no limits. Just you."

Cena nudged you gently toward the bed. "Go on, baby. Touch him. He's yours."

It felt like walking through a dream. Your fingers, which had fumbled with your clutch all night, now reached out, trembling, to trace the skin of Morrison's shoulder, slow and seductive. His skin was warm. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening heavy-lidded and full of promise.

"See?" Cena whispered from behind you, his hands coming to rest on your hips. "No jealousy. Just us. Giving you everything."

That was the permission you needed. You leaned down, capturing Morrison's lips in a kiss that started tentative but quickly ignited into something hungry and years in the making. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. He tasted like mint and expensive whiskey.

You felt Cena's hands then, working the zipper of your dress. The fabric pooled at your feet, and his large, calloused palms skated over your bare skin, possessive and worshipful. He kissed the junction of your neck and shoulder as you continued to kiss Morrison, a moan escaping your lips.

Morrison broke the kiss, his breath hot against your cheek. "Let me taste you," he murmured, and with a gentle guidance from Cena, you were laid back onto the sheets. Morrison moved with panther-like grace, settling between your legs, his mouth finding your core with an expertise that made your back arch off the bed. Cena held you, one arm behind your shoulders, his other hand caressing your breast, his eyes watching Morrison work with a fierce pride.

The sensations were overwhelming - the dual touch of rough and smooth, of powerful stability and sinuous fluidity. Morrison's tongue was an artist, painting pleasure across your nerves, while Cena's murmured praises in your ear, grounding you. "That's it, baby. Take it. He's good, isn't he? Made for this."

When you came, it was with a cry that Morrison swallowed, his own groan vibrating against you. Before you could catch your breath, Cena was turning you onto your stomach. You felt him, thick, heavy and familiar, press against you. Morrison was now in front of you, on his back, pulling you into another deep kiss.

They moved you between them like a cherished prize. Cena entered you from behind, a slow, claiming thrust that made you whimper into Morrison's mouth. Morrison, in turn, guided your hand down to wrap around his hard length, his own hips rolling up to meet your strokes. The rhythm was a perfect, sinful syncopation - Cena's deep, driving power from behind, Morrison's shallow, teasing thrusts into your fist, and the relentless, shared kisses.

You lost all sense of time, of place, of anything but the two men who were devoting themselves entirely to your pleasure. They traded places, they whispered filth and endearments, they worshipped every inch of you. Morrison's agility allowed him to position you in ways that made you see stars, while Cena's sheer strength held you safe and secure through every peak.

The finale came as the first hints of dawn painted the skyline pink. You was on your knees, Morrison buried deep inside you from behind, his body curved over yours. Cena stood before you, and you took him into your mouth, your eyes looking up at your husband. Your gazes held - full of love, trust, and a shared, dark joy. Morrison's pace became frantic, his fingers digging into your hips as he spilled inside you with a guttural cry. The vibration of your own moan around Cena was all it took to push him over the edge, and he followed with a roar, his hands cradling your face.

You all collapsed into a tangle of slick limbs and satiated sighs on the ruined sheets. Morrison was the first to recover, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before slipping out of bed. "I'll get the champagne," he said, his voice hoarse.

Cena pulled you close, your back to his chest, enveloping you completely. He nuzzled into your hair. "Happy?" he whispered.

You looked at Morrison's naked form moving across the luxurious room, then at the championship belt discarded on a chair, then at the wedding band on your finger, glinting in the low light. You melted into your husband's embrace, a tear of pure, overwhelmed happiness traced down your cheek.