Page 80 of Break Me Open
I reach for him, my hands slide under the T-shirt, my fingers trace the hard ridges of his abs. “Off,” I demand, tugging at the fabric. “I want to see you.”
He smirks, but he pulls the shirt over his head, tossing it aside. His chest is a fucking masterpiece; it’s broad, muscular, the kind of body that makes my mouth water. I sit up just enough to press my lips to his neck, tasting his skin, feeling the way his breath hitches when I bite down just hard enough to leave a mark.
Ari’s patience snaps. His hands grab my wrists and pin them above my head as he rolls his hips against me, the friction making me moan.
“You’re a fucking tease,” he growls, his mouth crashing back onto mine.
“You love it,” I laugh breathlessly against his lips. He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he kisses me harder, his free hand slides down between us to pull his bottoms down and wrap around both our cocks, stroking us together in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming. “Fuck,” Igroan, as my head falls back against the pillow. “I need you inside me.”
His hand stops, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue, to draw it out longer just to torture me. But then he shifts between my legs, his fingers tracing the crack of my arse with maddening slowness. “Been thinking about this, mm?” he murmurs, his voice is dark with satisfaction as he circles my hole with his thumb.
I bite my lip, and my body trembles with the need to be filled. “Shut up and fuck me.”
Ari chuckles, low and rough, but he doesn’t make me wait. He reaches over to the bedside table, takes out a jar of something, and smears it on my hole. The sensation makes me whimper. The first press of him against me is almost too much, thick, hot, the stretch burning in the best possible way.
I grab onto his arse and try to pull him into me. “Slow,” he orders, his voice strained as he pushes in another inch. “Take it slow.” Fuck, it feels good. So good I can barely think straight.
Ari’s hands are on my hips, his fingers digging in as he holds me still, feeding me his cock inch by inch. “You feel so good,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he finally fills me, and his hips are flush against my arse. “Fuck, Ari—”
He cuts me off with a kiss, his mouth crashing onto mine as he begins to move. It isn’t fast. It isn’t rough. It’s slow, deliberate, each thrust dragging against that spot inside me that makes my toes curl.
His cock fills me perfectly; it stretches me just enough to hurt, but in that way that makes my body crave more. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs against my lips with his rough voice. His hand slides between us, wrapping around my cock, stroking me in time with his thrusts.
It doesn’t take long for my body to tense up as I teeter on the edge. His breath is hot against my ear, and his voice is a low growl. “Give it to me, detka.”
That’s all it takes, the switch goes off in my brain, and my orgasm hits me like a freight train — my cock pulsing in his grip as I come hard, my whole body shuddering with the force of it. Ari follows a few minutes later — his thrusts turning erratic as he moans and buries himself deep, his release filling me in hot, thick spurts.
We collapse together, our bodies still joined, our chests heaving. Ari’s weight is heavy on top of me, but I don’t mind. I like the way he feels. His hand finds mine, and our fingers tangle together as he presses a soft kiss to my lips. Ari’s thumb brushes over my knuckles, and his touch is surprisingly gentle. I turn my head, pressing my lips to his shoulder.
I close my eyes, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, and the slow, steady rhythm lulls me into a false sense of calm. But beneath it, my own heart is like a storm, wild, uncertain, and absolutely fucking terrified.
But when he slides in behind me afterwards and wraps himself around me like he did this morning — his face tucked into the back of my neck, his arm heavy over my waist — I let my eyes close on a thought I don’t speak.
Six weeks.
Today.
Him.
I’ll take it.
Thirty
Arseny
I wake up before Caiden does. My body is a machine about these things, dawn hits, and I’m up whether I want to be or not. Normally, it’s fine. I go outside, smoke until my blood feels like it’s moving again, and ignore the world. But today? I wake up with Caiden Varrik asleep on top of me. Not beside me. On me. Chest to chest, his arm across my ribs, his leg tangled with mine, as if he decided sometime in the night that personal space is a myth.
My hand is already on his back, and I don’t remember putting it there. His breath warms my sternum, and his hair tickles my throat. He makes a soft sound when he shifts, like he’s trying to burrow closer, and I stare at the ceiling, feeling something rooted so deeply inside me that it clenches so sharply it borders on pain.
No, no, no. We are not doing this.
This, whatever this is, is dangerous in ways bullets aren’t.There are six weeks left before he leaves the country and this weekend becomes nothing but a thing that happened once in my cabin in the snow. Six weeks before he’s back in England, pretending this place didn’t get under his skin.
Pretending I didn’t.
I grit my teeth silently and try to ease my hand away from his back. He makes a quiet little noise — half protest, half instinct — and tightens his hold on me.
Oh, perfect. Absolutely perfect.
