Nine #2
I square my shoulders, ignoring the heat climbing my neck.
“Get on.” He steps into my space before I can brace for it, close enough that the cold air between us feels charged.
Then he turns his back, bends slightly, and slings an arm over my shoulder.
I get an arm under his knees and nearly forget how to breathe properly.
He’s rock solid and all muscle.
My hands grip the back of his thigh and every muscle in him tightens slightly at the touch. It’s barely perceptible, but it’s enough to send something electric through my body. “Ready?” I grind out.
His breath fans the side of my neck. “Always,” he answers.
I lift him and nearly curse at how perfectly he fits against me.
Ari’s arm tightens around my shoulders as I start the run.
His thigh presses into my hand, and his weight shifts with every stride.
The cold air claws at my lungs, but the heat of his body burns straight through my uniform.
Halfway through, he leans a little closer. “You’re stronger than you look,” he whispers.
“Shut up,” I pant, and he laughs wickedly.
I finish the carry and then plant him back down on the frozen ground. He steps in close. “You keep touching me like that, and I’ll start thinking you enjoy it, Caiden.” I open my mouth to speak. I don’t know whether I’m about to deny it, confirm it, or just give up and throw him into the snow.
But he gives me that infuriating half-smile, then walks away, leaving me standing in the cold, breathing as if I’ve just been shot, wanting him so much I could scream.
I can’t stop staring at his back as he goes, or thinking about the way his breath sounded in my ear, and the way his voice dipped when he said my name.
Fucking God help me, I want him, bad, and I’m running out of excuses not to.
The changing room in the communal showers is a long concrete box with benches, hooks, and nowhere to hide. Steam ghosting the far end where the showers are already running.
I tell myself I’ll be quick, in, out, shower, done. I push through the door with the rest of my unit, peel off my gloves, flex my cold fingers, and start working my way out of my kit.
My hands are clumsy with the zips and buckles, and I tell myself it’s just the cold. Then Collins elbows me. “Are you good, Cai? You look like someone nicked your last cigarette.”
“I don’t smoke,” I mutter.
“Exactly,” he says, like that proves something. I roll my eyes and strip down to my shorts. I’ve showered with a hundred blokes in worse conditions than this without blinking. But I hear the familiar Russian from my right, and my whole body goes hot and cold at once.
Of course he’s fucking here.
Ari’s laugh cuts through the noise; it’s low and unmistakable. He’s stood with a couple of his own men, trading insults I don’t follow, and then he shrugs out of his top.
The universe hates me.
I keep my eyes on my locker. I absolutely keep my eyes on my locker — except my peripheral vision is a traitor.
He peels the fabric off slowly, and the hem drags over his back, taking clumps of dried earth with it.
Underneath, his skin is pale where the sun hasn’t got him, and golden where it has.
My eyes fix on his shoulder blades, taking note of the compact muscles, and the scattering of old tiny scars.
Then I quickly drag my gaze back to the metal in front of me.
It’s dented, chipped, and uglier than sin. Good. Focus on that.
Locker. Not Ari. Locker. Not the line of his spine. Locker.
I hear fabric hitting the floor from Ari’s direction, but I don’t dare turn my head.
My hands are sweating now because my body has decided that’s what we’re doing today.
Brilliant. I grab my towel, wrap it hard around my waist, heading for the showers like I’m just another bloke who ran too hard and wants the mud off.
I pick an empty nozzle, hang my towel on the hook, and step under the spray.
It’s too cold, then it becomes too hot within seconds, making my skin prickle.
I’m watching the mud run in little brown rivers down my chest as someone steps into the next shower along.
I hear the familiar chuckle of amusement before I see him.
Of all the fucking places.
“Lance Corporal,” he says in that smooth, infuriating way, as if we’re meeting at a tea party. “Good form on the carry.”
I close my eyes for a second, then I open them and keep my gaze firmly fixed on the tiles in front of me. “Sergeant,” I say. My voice comes out clipped, functional and neutral. It doesn’t betray the fact that I can feel his presence like a heat lamp at my side.
He’s closer than is strictly necessary, as there’s another shower free further down the line. But he chose this one. Why wouldn’t he?
Water runs over my face and shoulders, and I focus on the feeling of it, on the cold biting my scalp, not on the knowledge that ten inches away, water is sliding over his skin. “You carried me all the way,” he goes on. “Didn’t drop me once. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t make a habit of it,” I say flatly, and he laughs under his breath. It’s maddeningly quiet, it’s low enough that the other lads don’t notice, but loud enough to vibrate under my skin.
“What if I want to?” he asks, his voice now a low whisper.
I can feel my pulse at the base of my skull. “Find someone else to wind up,” I snap.
“Oh, but you’re my favourite,” he says, sounding genuinely delighted by that fact, which is deeply unfair. I can’t see him without turning my head, and I absolutely refuse to turn my head. If I look, I’ll remember yesterday.
Heat coils low in my stomach. I scrub harder at my chest, dragging grit down my ribs, as if I can scrape the whole reaction out by force. “You’re doing it again,” he says casually.
“Doing what?” I ask, gritting my teeth.
“Staring. Are you afraid to look at me, Caiden?” he asks.
I whip my head around to look him in the eye because I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m scared.
Big mistake. His wet hair is slicked back, water running in a thin line from his throat down his chest, over the stark lines of his ribs, lower — I wrench my eyes back up so fast I give myself whiplash.
He smirks, knowing exactly how low my gaze travelled before I managed to slam the brakes on.
“Relax, Caiden,” he murmurs, switching to softer English. “If you keep frowning like that, your face will get stuck. Bad for your career. Terrible for your... other prospects.”
“I don’t have other prospects,” I say, too quickly.
His eyebrows rise. “Now that would be a tragedy.” I should say something else, shut him down, or walk away. Instead, I stand there under freezing water, brain off the rails and heart hammering, while he calmly soaps his shoulder like we’re having a normal, casual chat.
Fuck this.
I reach for the tap and twist it off. The spray cuts and the cold air attacks my wet skin. I step away, grab my towel, and wrap it around my waist in one desperate motion. My body doesn’t know whether it’s freezing or burning, but I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll grab him.
The mess later is loud enough to make my teeth vibrate.
I sit with my lot because that’s what you do.
You sit with your team, swap insults, complain, and pretend you’re not all wondering which of you is going to die first when the joint training becomes joint operations.
Mason drops his tray opposite me as he sits leaning an elbow on the table.
“You went solid on the carry,” he says. “Didn’t think you had that in you. ”
“Thanks,” I mutter, poking something that might be beans with my fork.
“I mean, I knew you could carry one of our lads,” he adds. “But that Russian sergeant looked like he weighed more than three men.”
My left eye twitches. “He’s not that heavy,” I say.
Mason smirks. “Oh, not that heavy, eh? You two swapping weight stats now?”