Page 93 of Break Me Open
My mouth goes dry, and I hate that he can see it. I hate that he’s right even more. I force a laugh. “You’re imagining things.”
His hand comes up to adjust my grip on the bar; it’s nothing that anyone would think of as strange in a gym. Acorrection, if anything. A teaching moment. A completely normal thing. Except for his fingers curling around mine, the movement makes the back of my neck prickle. “Mm,” he says, like he doesn’t believe me. Then, calm as sin. “Come.” It’s one word. But it makes something squeeze inside me like a rope tightening.
I should say no, especially now, but instead, I follow him out a few minutes later like I’m under orders, because maybe I am.
Maybe I always have been.
He takes the service corridor behind the gym — it’s less foot traffic, more concrete, pipes, and shadow — stops at a storage door and pulls it open. He steps inside without looking back. I follow behind, and the door shuts behind me.
The air is cooler in here. It smells like dust, oil and metal. The kind of place you’d forget existed unless you had a reason to hide. Ari turns and leans back against a shelf like he’s got all the time in the world, waiting for me to come to him. “Are you insane?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says, lifting one shoulder.
“Someone could—” he crosses the distance in two steps. No warning, no ramp-up. One hand on the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair, and his mouth on mine like he’s been waiting to do it properly. My hands lift on instinct, grabbing him, pulling him closer like I’m starving.
Because I am.
Because the second his mouth touches mine, my brain goes blessedly quiet.I make a sound I hate myself for, but he hears it anyway, his mouth curves against mine — so fucking smug. His other hand slides to my waist, pulling me flush, and for one sharp second, my whole body lights up. Then he breaks the kiss, not because he wants to, but because he has to. Hekeeps his forehead pressed to mine; his eyes locked on my mouth like it’s a problem he’s trying not to solve.
His thumb brushes my jaw. “You’re going to kill me,” I whisper.
He huffs a laugh, quietly. “You are dramatic.”
“Don’t pretend you’re not feeling it.”
His eyes flick up to mine. “I feel everything,” he says. Then he kisses me again, shorter, rougher, like he’s cutting himself off before he does something reckless.
He pulls away and steps back enough to put air between us. Enough to remind me we’re on base, not in a cabin where the world can’t reach us.
I grab his wrists and shove him back into the shelving, just needing to feel him under my hands. As his back hits the metal, he gasps, just once, and it’s enough to light me up. “Shhh,” I whisper. “Someone could hear.”
“Let them,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine again. This one isn’t careful at all. It’s teeth, heat and frustration, his hands gripping my hips like he’s holding himself back from doing worse. I feel the press of him against me; it’s unmistakable, and it nearly wrecks me on the spot. “Fuck,” he breathes, sounding strained.
I tilt my head, my mouth nibbling his neck. “We should stop.”
“Yes,” he says immediately, while his hand slides under my shirt, and his palm is now flat against my lower back. I keep nibbling his throat, his Adam’s apple, his jaw.
“This is stupid,” I mutter.
“Yes,” he repeats. His mouth finds mine, kissing me more slowly now, lingering in a way that feels almost intimate, and more dangerous. He kisses me like he’s memorising, not taking. I close my eyes and let myself feel it without tipping over.
This is the line. We both know it. The sharp, stupid edge where everything tips from,we can survive thistowe absolutely will not.
His fingers flex once at my back. Then he pushes me away gently.
That alone tells me how bad it was getting. I take another step back, and he runs a hand through his hair, as if he’s furious at himself. When he looks at me again, the fire is still there, but it’s controlled, boxed up. “We can’t do that here,” he says.
“Then why did you start it?”
His eyes flick up. “Because you looked at me like... that.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “So, stop doing it.” The silence stretches between us, and I straighten my shirt while he adjusts his. We put ourselves back together like two people pretending this hasn’t already gone too far. Then he walks over to the door and opens it. “Don’t follow me,” he says quietly.
I frown. “Why?”
“Because if you do,” he says, his voice low in a way that makes my chest ache, “I won’t stop next time.” Then walks out the door, and he’s gone.
