Page 44 of Break Me Open
I slide one hand up the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape, and press closer, taking control of the angle, the pressure, and the pace. He makes this startled sound into my mouth, like he hadn’t quite processed that I might meet him halfway, never mind take over. I lick into him, slow, deliberate, and feel him stutter.
He tries to chase it immediately, of course. Tries to match me, to even it up, but he’s a second behind, and I can feel him realising that in real time, like a man who thought he’d already read the map and is discovering new terrain under his feet.
I’m going to make so much trouble out of this.
I drag my mouth back, just enough to breathe, our foreheads knocking together. We’re both panting as if we’ve sprinted. I can see his eyes now, up close and too open, stripped of whatever he usually hides behind.
“Arseny,” he rasps, like he’s surprised the name works out loud. His gaze drops to my mouth again, like it’s magnetic. For a second, I think he’s going to apologise. If he says sorry, I might actually punch him. Instead, I tell him to kiss me again, and he surges in.
It’s better this time. Still desperate, but there’s a pattern to it now. He’s already learning me, adjusting his angle to fit my mouth, and not crashing our teeth together. His hand, that had moved to rest on my chest, slides down my side, the fingers skimming my ribs, and his thumb brushes the underside of my pectoral through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.
A hot, electric line lances straight down my spine and my back arches before I can stop it, pressing me harder against him. He swallows the sound I make, turning it into his own, and that’s a problem.
I’d planned for manipulated tension, curiosity, him losing his temper and doing something he’d think about later with shame and horror. I didn’t plan for the part where once hismouth is on mine, I’m the one in danger of forgetting we’re standing outside. We’re in the open, where anyone could turn this corner and blow a hole in both our lives, and now my pulse increases for a different reason.
Focus, Zakirov.
I keep kissing him. Obviously — let’s not be insane. But I let the awareness bleed back in — this is reckless even by my standards.
He shifts nearer, like he’s trying to climb inside my skin. My fingers curl tighter in his hair, and he makes this wounded little noise that hits me somewhere between my ribs and my groin. He pulls back just enough for his lips to drag along my jaw and move down to my neck. “You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispers.
“Good,” I murmur. “I’d be offended if I didn’t.” He huffs a helpless laugh that ends in another breathless kiss.
His hand slides to my waist, his thumb pressing into the dip between my hip and ribs, and his body rocks forward against mine. There’s no mistaking the hard line against my thigh.
Okay, now it’s officially too much. All it would take is one filthy whisper in his ear, and he’d follow me straight off the edge. But then what? Then we’re the story. The rumour. The cautionary tale. The British Lance Corporal who got caught with his fucked-up Russian superior, and guess which one of us they’d decide was the predator in that particular narrative?
I’ve survived too long by picking my catastrophes; I don’t get to be careless. Not here, not with this. I let the kiss go on a few seconds longer, then I take a breath, plant my palm flat on his chest, and push just enough to put that thin slice of air back between us.
He chases automatically, his body leaning forward, his eyes unfocused, as if he missed the part where I moved.
“Ari?”
“Careful, Caiden,” I murmur, forcing my voice into a light tone. “You’re going to mess up my reputation.”
“Your— what?”
I let my hands drop from him and move a step back. “People think I’m untouchable,” I say breezily. “It’s very useful. I’d hate for them to find out I can be dragged behind equipment sheds by overeager British boys.”
“Overeager?” he echoes as if that’s the point to argue.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s okay, though. I forgive you.”
His brows knit together. “I— you— I kissed you, and you’re forgiving me?”
“Well, you laid hands on a foreign NCO with a reputation for being difficult and then put your tongue in his mouth. Bold choices, Varrik. I respect that. But we should probably not continue the demonstration out here.” As I say it, I glance reflexively toward the corner of the building. The angle is blind enough that someone could round it and see us before we had time to detangle without it looking like what it is.
His gaze follows mine, and I watch realisation roll over his face in real time.
“Shit,” he breathes.
“Yes,” I agree pleasantly. “Welcome to my world.” He looks back at me, and I can see the conflict there. He doesn’t want to stop. Hereallydoesn’t want to stop. But he’s also not an idiot. He understands what getting caught would mean. Not for me — he probably hasn’t even got there yet — for him. For his spotless record, his ‘promising’ career and his imaginary, neat little life.
“Ari,” he says again, but the tone is different now. “What— what is this?”
Oh no. Absolutely not. We’re not having that conversation next to the fucking storage shed. “This,” I say, letting my mouthcurl, “is me being very generous indeed, and not laughing at you for being terrible at pretending you didn’t want to do that.”
His eyes flare with anger. “I’m not... I’m not terrible at...”
