Page 53 of Break Me Open
Caiden
The barracks are almost silent when I wake up, that happens sometimes. I don’t dream — well, I do — but not the kind of dreams I can say out loud. It’s heat, pressure, hands and a mouth that belongs to him. It’s always him.
I lie there for a moment, staring at nothing, willing my anxiety to settle, but my body’s already decided how this morning’s going to go. My heart beating too fast, skin running too hot, and that slow, traitorous ache low in my stomach, creeping lower. I drag a hand over my face and mutter into my palm, “Jesus Christ, not again.” Every morning since that night I kissed him, and he kissed me back like he could tear the breath straight out of my throat, and I’d thank him for it — I wake up like this.
I throw the blanket off and swing my legs over the side of the bunk, careful not to shake the frame and wake Mason. My feet hit the cold floor with a soft thud, and the air bites at my bare skin. That helps a little, but I need the shower. I grab my towel and cross the barracks with quick, silent steps. I don’t even bother checking if anyone stirs behind me. If someone wakes now, they’ll see everything written across my face.
I may also be slightly paranoid.
I push into the washroom and let the door sigh shut behind me, and the lights flicker awake. I twist the shower handle, and steam unfurls immediately, rising from the drain in a slow, ghostly spiral. I step under before the water fully heats because I’m desperate, and if I hesitate, I’ll think. And if I think, I’ll see him.
For a moment, the cold bites. Then the warmth catches up, sliding over my shoulders and down my back. The hiss of the stream fills my ears and I brace my hands on the wall, dropping my head between my arms.
Right on cue, because my brain hates me, the fantasy hits me. A fantasy built on a memory, twisted into something hotter.
Ari. Stepping into the shower behind me. Water dripping down his chest, the way it did that day I followed him into the communal showers, bare, and unbothered, looking at me like I was dessert left out on the counter. In my head, he presses up behind me, his breath on my neck, the scrape of his teeth, sharp enough to draw blood without breaking skin. “Look at you, Caiden... wanting something you don’t even have the balls to ask for.”
My fingers curl against the tile and I squeeze my eyes shut. This is pathetic. One smug, sharp-tongued, maddening Russian Sergeant has me acting like some lovesick idiot who doesn’t know what to do with his own hands.
Another wave of heat rolls through me. Enough!
I’m going to lose my mind.
I force myself to stand upright, and I let the water sluice down my face. I try to imagine anything else — training drills, weapons checks, my CO screaming about last week’s comms error.
Nothing helps. It’s Ari. Always fucking Ari.
The way he pressed into me at the fence that night. The way he said my name, like he’d been starving for it. The way he held my jaw in his hand, his thumb brushing my mouth as if he was thinking about something far too dangerous to say aloud.
And then the kiss. God, the kiss. That brutal, perfect crash of lips and teeth, and the way he made a noise deep in his chestwhen he kissed me back. The way he pulled away first, leaving me shaking, breathless, and furious, and wanting more.
I rinse my face again like it’ll drown the memory. But there’s no chance. When I’m finally clean enough to pass for sane, I turn off the water, wrap the towel around my waist, and force my legs to carry me out of there. Hopefully, the day will bury me in work, and I won’t have to see him. If I’m lucky.
I manage to avoid him all morning. Barely. Every time I enter a room, my eyes automatically look for broad shoulders and sharp cheekbones.
Every time I hear a sharp laugh, my pulse stutters like an idiot. But he’s nowhere, which should be a relief, except it feels more like a punishment.
By midday, my nerves feel stretched thin. I don’t know what I want at this point, space or him. Both would kill me, and neither is an option. I’m heading down one of the narrower hallways near the armoury, thinking about lunch in the most robotic way possible, when something hooks around my waist and yanks. It’s not hard or painful but I react instantly, twisting my weight, but the grip is already shifting. And then I know who it is before I see or hear him.
Ari.
He pulls me sideways, right through a door I didn’t even notice was open, into a broom cupboard. The door shuts behind us, quietly and quickly. The half-darkness swallows me, and then his body is against mine, pressing against me like a wall I collided with and never had a chance of stopping. “Ari what—” His hand covers my mouth to silence me.
His eyes catch the little sliver of hallway light still leaking under the door — bright steel grey, burning with something that makes my knees threaten mutiny.
“Be quiet, detka,” he whispers. I feel those words everywhere. He removes his hand only when he’s certain I won’t make a sound. He looks at me as if he’s reading every inch of my face. His gaze sweeps down my body, like he’s choosing which part of me to ruin first. Then he leans in and kisses me slowly and deeply, his tongue pushing inside my mouth, doing what he does best. He pulls away from me for a second, nibbling on my bottom lip as he does. “I’ve been looking for you,” he murmurs.
A shiver runs straight through me, and I swallow hard. “You— I—” I can’t form a sentence.
He smirks against my lips. “Yes,” he says quietly, like he’s answering the question I didn’t voice. “I know.” Before I can react, his hand slides up my chest and closes around my throat.
Fuck.
It’s just enough pressure to tilt my chin upwards. My pulse slams frantically against his palm. “Do you know what you did?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. His thumb strokes once along my jaw, slowly and deliberately. “You kissed me,” he says. “And now I want more.” His mouth brushes mine. “And I shouldn’t.” I swear my knees are actually about to give. His hand slides from my throat down to my chest, then lower. “Look at you,” he breathes, sounding amused and hungry. “Shaking before I’ve even touched you properly.”
“I’m not...” The lie dies halfway out of my mouth. He smiles, then presses even closer, harder, body to body, no space left between us. His hand drops to my abs. He slips it under my shirt, then drags it slowly up my stomach until it rests on my chest.
“Touch me,” he murmurs against my lips, soft enough to sound gentle, sharp enough to leave no room for disobedience. My whole body lights up like a struck match.
