SEVENTEEN
CAIDEN
I should have stopped as soon as the words “space cake” came out of my mouth.
But no. Here I am. In the middle of Amsterdam, sitting next to the canal, watching Arseny Zakirov try not to collapse into a fit of giggles.
He ate less than I did, but it clearly doesn’t take much.
For a few minutes, nothing really happens, then I notice my hands.
They feel... weird. I flex my fingers once; the sensation comes a fraction late. It’s like my nerves are buffering.
Interesting.
“Ari.”
“Da?” he says, holding back another giggle.
“My bones are humming.”
“Your bones are fine, detka.”
“I’m telling you they’re vibrating.” I look at him, then at the water, then back at him. He bursts out laughing. It’s not intentional, and I can tell he’s trying to hold it back, but it doesn’t work. “Stop laughing, I can feel my heartbeat.”
“That's normal.”
“In my teeth...”
“Still normal.” He presses his lips together, trying to stifle another giggle.
“Oh my god, Ari, I can feel my heartbeat in my dick.” There’s a long pause, and he loses composure completely, sending me off into a howling, laughing fit.
The sound echoes strangely off the water, and I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, trying to control my lungs. Ari is still smiling when he looks over at me.
The high makes everything slower, and for a second, I can see every detail of his beautiful face — the crease near his eye, the way his hair falls forward, the way his mouth tilts when he’s trying not to laugh again. Then I forget what I was about to say because I’m far too busy staring at him.
Then, thud. My facial expression must have changed dramatically, because Ari tilts his head. “What?”
Thud, again. Then I hear the music. “You don’t hear that?” I ask. He turns his head slightly, listening. The bass rolls again off in the distance.
“That,” he says carefully, “is far away.”
“It’s close enough, let’s go.”
“We are not wandering toward unidentified industrial noise while intoxicated.”
“We’re not intoxicated,” I say, pushing myself upright as the pavement shifts slightly under my feet. I’ll pretend that didn’t happen. “We’re... enhanced.” He stands as well, slower and annoyingly less wobbly.
The bass hits again, and this time, there’s a break in it, a sample, then a riff. I freeze, instantly recognising the music. “No way.”
Ari looks at me. “What?”
I squint down the street past Ari as if I can see through the buildings. “Ari, why can I hear The Prodigy?”
“What is The Prodigy?” he asks, blinking at me.
I turn to look at him as the bass gets louder. The riff cuts through the night like a siren calling me to the rocks. “That’s Voodoo People,” I shout, already grinning.
“I still don’t know what that means.”
“It means,” I reply, stepping forward toward the sound, “we’re going that way.”
“We’re absolutely not.”
“We absolutely are.”
He steps directly in front of me. “We are not following British rave music into the night in the middle of Amsterdam.”
“You’re scared.” I tease, grinning at him.
His eyes narrow at me. “I am not scared.”
“Right.”
“I am evaluating risk.”
“Of course you are.”
“This is how people get stabbed in dark alleyways.”
“This is how people dance and have fun,” I argue. He still doesn’t move. Then the bass slams again, properly this time. I tilt my head, still grinning. “The terrifying Sergeant Zakirov,” I say lightly, “is afraid of Voodoo People.”
His jaw clenches. “I’m not afraid.”
“It’s fine, fun police,” I continue, because apparently, I’ve decided to die tonight. “We can go back to the hotel. Put something safe on. Maybe a bit of ballroom.”
“Careful.”
“What? Do you need me to hold your hand?”
He steps closer and grabs my wrist. “If I follow that music,” he says, his voice low and steady despite the bass, “you are not allowed to complain about the consequences.”
“What consequences?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he turns and starts walking toward the music, and this time I’m the one being dragged.
The warehouse looks exactly like some random place you’d get tetanus. It’s a collage of different-coloured bricks, metal doors, and no signs. Light bleeds out around the edges, and bass thuds through the walls like it’s trying to escape.
“What consequences?” I ask again, still grinning.
He doesn’t answer, and that’s when I realise I might have miscalculated.
He doesn’t slow down at the door or do the thing where he scans, evaluates and silently judges everyone within a fifty-metre radius.
Instead, he grabs the door handle and pushes.
The door swings open, and the bass hits me square in the chest. Then the heat, bodies, and The Prodigy are tearing through a random warehouse in Amsterdam.
“Oh, that’s sexy,” I mutter as Ari steps inside first, the door slamming behind us and blocking the outside world. Now all that exists is strobe light, movement, and the kind of bass that makes your whole body rattle.
For a few seconds, Ari stands stock still like he’s recalibrating. Then he turns his head slightly toward me. The drop hits, the crowd surges, and before I can decide whether I’m leading or he is, he grabs my wrist again and pulls me straight into the middle of it.
The bass pounds again, and bodies press in closer. I turn to face him. “You’re not scared of Voodoo People then?” I shout over the sound.
He leans closer so I can hear him. “I am not afraid of music.”
“Good.” I grab the front of his jacket and pull him closer. “If you’re going to double down,” I say, “at least pretend you’re enjoying it.”
“Give me something to enjoy, then.”
I lean in, but he catches it instantly. “Too many people watching,” he says, close to my ear.
“I don’t care.” The bass thumps through my chest like a second heartbeat, each pulse dragging me deeper into the haze of the rave.
The air is thick with sweat, weed smoke, and the electric hum of bodies pressed too close together.
My vision swims — fuck, that space cake hit hard — but all I can focus on is Ari in front of me, his broad shoulders slightly rolling with the music, his half-up blond hair flowing down the back of his head.
He’s got that smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I reach up, tugging the tie in his hair free so it all spills down, messy and wild. I fist my hands in it, yanking his head down to mine. Our lips crash together, and his tongue invades my mouth.
I whimper into the kiss, letting my hands roam, my palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest, my fingers tracing the ridges of his abs through his thin T-shirt.
He’s built like a fucking tank, all corded muscle and brute strength, and the way he tenses under my touch tells me he’s just as gone as I am.
The high has us both floating. Every sensation is amplified — the drag of his jeans against mine, the way his pulse jumps when I graze my thumb over his nipple through the fabric.
“Fuck,” he hisses, but he doesn’t stop me. Instead, his hands hold on to my hips, his fingers digging in hard as he grinds back against me. I can feel how hard he is through the layers and the way his breath hitches when I roll my hips just right.
I can’t stop touching him. Whatever was in that cake has turned me ravenous; my need for him is now a living thing inside me, clawing its way out.
I tilt my head, and my mouth finds the side of his neck. His skin is salty, damp with sweat, and I kiss a slow stripe up to his ear before nibbling his earlobe. He groans, and his grip on me tightens. “You’re a fucking tease,” he growls.
I pull back, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Stop talking and fuck me in the bathroom.”
His entire body goes still. For a second, I think I’ve pushed too far, but then his fingers clamp down on my jaw, forcing my head back so he can stare me down, his blue-grey eyes meeting mine.
“Are you sure you can handle that, detka?” he murmurs, his thumb dragging over my bottom lip. “Because I’m not going to be gentle.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I don’t want gentle; I want him to ruin me. “Try me,” I challenge. I grab his hand and drag him through the crowd, my heart pounding in my chest.
The music pulses around us and changes to another Prodigy song, the bass vibrating through the soles of my feet, up my legs, settling deep in my bones.
The hallway to the bathrooms is dimly lit, and the air is thick with the scent of bleach. My cock is painfully hard, already leaking pre-cum into my boxers. I can feel Ari’s eyes on me, burning into my back as I push open the door to the men’s room.
The space is grimy, the tiles are cracked, and the stalls barely offer any privacy. A few guys are pissing at the urinals, their eyes glazed over, lost in their own highs.
I don’t care. I don’t fucking care if they watch. I need Ari inside me.
I shove open the door to the last stall.
The space is tight, the walls are covered in graffiti, and the floor is sticky under my shoes.
I turn to face Ari, my back pressing against the cold metal of the stall door.
His eyes are dark, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
He looks feral, like a man on the edge of losing control.
“Get on your knees,” he orders. I drop to the filthy floor without hesitation.
My hands grip his jeans, pulling at the belt.
He smirks down at me, his fingers tangling in my hair, yanking my head back so I’m forced to look up at him.
“Such a good boy for me,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
I open my mouth, sucking his thumb inside, swirling my tongue around it, making him groan.