Page 30 of Break Me Open
“What?” I cut in, my eyes on his. “Break my nose? Put me on my back? Choke me until I stop talking?”
He bares his teeth. “You think this is funny?”
“I think this is foreplay,” I say calmly. “The funny part comes later.” His grip tightens so sharply that the webbing of my vest bites my skin. For a second, I think he’s going to slam me harder or maybe hit me. But his eyes drop to my mouth, again, and I soften my voice on purpose. “You’re looking again.”
He rips his gaze back up. “You’re disgusting.”
“Probably,” I agree. “But you’re the one pinning me to a tree, detka.”
His breath stutters.“What does that word mean?” he asks.
“Nothing you didn’t like.”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t stop me,” I point out. “You never do; that’s the thing. You always come closer and push back.” I roll my shoulders against the bark lazily, his hands flex with the movement. “For someone who claims to dislike me so much, you seem to spend a lot of time touching me.”
His fingers loosen when he realises what he’s doing. He realises what it looks like, and drops his hands as if he’s been burned. “I’m going back to the group,” he says, his voice flat. “Before I do something I actually regret.”
“You’ll regret not doing it more,” I say, tilting my head.
He glares at me, taking a few steps back. “You’re not worth losing my career over.”
“You’re right,” I say. “You’d be more useful if you kept it. I don’t want you to fail. Where would the fun be in that? I want you standing. Wearing that pretty uniform. Following allyour little rules.” I push off the tree and step into his space again. “It’s so much more entertaining watching you break them one at a time.” I brush past him with a deliberate little graze of hip and elbow. “Come on, Lance Corporal,” I toss over my shoulder. “Your CO will cry if I keep you too long.”
We emerge back onto the faint path like nothing has happened. The men are arguing cheerfully about who shot whom, and Niko catches my eye and frowns, instantly reading the shift in the air around me. “What did you do?” he asks.
“Nothing at all,” I say, entirely truthfully. Because technically, I haven’t done anything. Yet.
We walk back toward the base, and I fall in step a little behind Caiden, watching the way his jaw grinds. I smile to myself because he thinks this was the dangerous part.
The dangerous part will come later, when he’s alone in his bunk, wondering what would’ve happened if he had let go. That’s the thing about men like Caiden Varrik. They can survive bullets, explosions, orders, and war. It’s the thoughts they can’t outrun, and I’ve just given him a whole new arsenal of those.
And we’re only getting started.
Eleven
Caiden
The barracks are too fucking quiet tonight. Usually, there’s at least some noise. But tonight the whole place feels like it’s holding its breath, and my paranoia tells me it’s because of me somehow.
Well, more specifically, because of him — Ari fucking Zakirov. I shut my locker harder than necessary, and the sound of metal clangs through the room. I freeze as if that’ll help, my palms sweating against the thin metal door. My pulse is still climbing, as if I sprinted here, making the blood rush behind my ears.
I yank my shirt over my head and toss it onto the bunk. The others are out — night rotation, mess duty, cards somewhere — leaving the room mine for once. Thank God. I need the space. Something dug under my skin today and hooked itself in with claws. I’ve been doing a great job pretending it didn’t, but the second I close my eyes, all I see is Ari’s smirk. “Nope,” I mutter it through clenched teeth. “No. I’m not doing this.”
I sit on the edge of the bunk and stare at the floorboards as if they’ll save me. Fucking bastard. Fucking beautiful bastard. I drag my fingers through my hair and suck in a long breath, but that only makes everything worse.
I slam my fist into the mattress beside me, making my fist sting. Great. Maybe pain will override everything else. My trousers are uncomfortably tight. Humiliatingly tight. I haven’t even touched myself yet.
I drop my head into my hands and laugh. “I hate you,” I whisper to the empty room. I hate the way he looks at me like he’s already inside my head, and the way my stomach drops when he smirks. I hate that he’s slightly younger, cockier, and he shouldn’t matter, but he does. Somehow, he fucking does. And I hate — God, Ihate— that he hasn’t kissed me. Not even once. Like in the shower, he knew I wanted it, I wanted him, and he enjoyed denying me.
I stand abruptly, pacing once, twice, then stop because the pressure in my trousers is unbearable, and I’m one step away from going insane. I yank open the locker again, grabbing a towel — why, I don’t know, maybe instinct — and I lock the door behind me. I sit back on the bunk, towel under me, and finally let myself look down.
Yeah. Brilliant.
I’ve been hard for hours. I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m not. I’m too far past humiliation into something deeper, hotter, and more desperate. My palms drop to my thighs, sliding up slowly, and hesitating at the waistband. God, even that tiny touch sends a jolt through me.
He did this, with his filthy voice, thumb on my lip, and his breath hovering over my mouth, denying me like it was a goddamn game. “Fuck,” I whisper.
