4. Erik
ERIK
I pace outside Katarina's door, my cock already straining against my tactical pants. Fuck. Two more minutes until I take over from Viktor. Two days of this torture, and she's crawled under my skin deeper than any enemy ever has.
“You look like a man who doesn’t know what to do with himself.” Viktor's gravelly voice cuts through my thoughts.
I grunt, keeping my stance rigid. The memory of Katarina's knowing smirk from yesterday floods back. The way she'd stretched, arching her back, pretending to work out muscle kinks.
“She's been quiet.” Viktor checks his watch. “Reading those tech magazines, we gave her.”
My jaw clenches. Even that innocent detail sends heat rushing south. The way she bites her lip when she concentrates, how her fingers trace the pages...
“Erik?”
“What?”
“You're grinding your teeth again.” Viktor's eyes narrow. “Maybe I should keep watch longer?—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Go. I've got this.”
He hesitates, but years of working together make him trust my judgment. The door clicks shut behind him as he leaves.
I adjust myself, willing my body to cooperate. It's useless. Every shift of fabric against my cock reminds me of yesterday's release in the shower and the one before that in my quarters. Quick, brutal sessions trying to purge her from my system.
Taking a deep breath, I check my watch. Time. I scan the corridor one final time before entering.
Katarina lounges on the bed, magazine open across her lap. Her hair falls in waves around her shoulders, and my fingers itch to grab it, to pull her head back and?—
“Hello, Erik.” Her voice drips honey-sweet poison. “Miss me?”
My cock pulses, and I force myself to maintain eye contact. Not to let my gaze drift to the gentle rise and fall of her chest or the way her shirt has ridden up to expose a strip of pale skin.
I take my position by the door, already knowing the next eight hours will be pure hell.
I track Katarina's movements like a predator, every muscle coiled tight. She unfolds from the bed with feline grace, stretching in a way that makes her shirt ride higher. My hands flex at my sides, and I focus on my breathing. In, hold, out. The way they taught us in Spetsnaz.
She pads across the room, bare feet silent on the carpet. I shift my weight, positioning myself between her and the door—pure instinct. But she's not heading for escape. No, she's coming straight at me.
My pulse kicks up. Not fear. It’s something I need to crush.
“Getting cramped in here.” She runs her fingers through her hair, and the scent of her shampoo hits me. “A girl needs her exercise, you know?”
I say nothing. Words are weapons, and she's too skilled at wielding them.
She steps closer. Closer. My hand twitches toward the knife at my belt. But there's no threat here except to my control. She knows it too—I see it in the slight curl of her lips.
“Don't.” The warning growls out before I can stop it.
Her smile widens. “Don't what, Erik?”
She brushes past me, her arm grazing my chest. The contact sends electricity through my body, and I have to lock my muscles to keep from grabbing her.
“I'm going to take a shower.” She throws the words over her shoulder as she heads for the bathroom. “Would you like to watch?”
The bathroom door clicks shut, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. Blyad . She's playing me like a master strategist, and my body's betraying every defense I've built.
The sound of running water fills the room. I resume my position by the door, ignoring how my skin still burns where she touched me.
The sound of water hitting tile torments me. Each splash conjures images I shouldn't have—water running down her curves, soap sliding over her skin. My cock throbs, and I shift my stance. The movement only makes it worse.
I focus on the wall. Plain beige paint. Nothing interesting. Nothing that reminds me of soft flesh or wet skin or?—
Fuck.
The pipes creak as the water shuts off. I hear rustling, and then the bathroom door opens. Steam billows out, carrying her scent with it.
My eyes betray me before I can stop them. She stands there in just a towel. The fabric barely covers what it needs to, and her legs... Christ, her legs go on forever.
A growl tears from my throat. “Get back in there and get dressed.”
“But my clothes are out here.” Her voice drips innocence, but her eyes gleam with challenge.
“Now.” I grab her bag of fresh clothes from beside the bed and toss it at her feet.
She bends to pick it up—slowly, deliberately. The towel rides up, and I catch a glimpse of her thigh, which makes my vision blur.
“Bathroom. Now.” Each word comes out rough, more animal than human.
She straightens, clutching the bag to her chest. The movement makes the towel gap slightly.
“Is something wrong, Erik?” Her tongue caresses my name, and I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching for her.
“Dress. In. The. Bathroom.”
A smile plays on her lips as she turns, giving me a view of her bare shoulders and the elegant line of her spine. The bathroom door closes again, and I let out a ragged breath.
My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape, as if it knows I'm in deeper trouble than any battlefield ever put me in.
The bathroom door opens, and I nearly swallow my tongue. Katarina steps out in black yoga pants that cling to every curve, paired with a white shirt so fitted it leaves nothing to the imagination.
Damn you, Alexi. My brother's choice of clothing for our captive can't be a coincidence. He's fucking with me, and I know it.
She walks past, and the pants stretch across her ass in a way that makes my mouth go dry. The fabric is so thin that I can see the outline of her thong. My cock throbs against my zipper as she bends to retrieve her magazine from the bed.
The shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin above her waistband. A drop of water falls from her damp hair, trailing down her neck and disappearing beneath the white fabric. I track its path like a man dying of thirst.
“Something wrong with my clothes, Erik?” She settles back on the bed, crossing her legs. The movement makes the yoga pants pull even tighter.
I force my eyes up to her face, but that's no better. Her lips curve in that knowing smile that makes me want to?—
No.
I resume my position by the door, deliberately keeping my eyes off her. But the mirror on the opposite wall reflects her image. She stretches her arms above her head, arching her back. The shirt rides up again.
Blyad. I'm going to kill Alexi. He knew exactly what he was doing when he picked out these clothes. Probably laughed his ass off while doing it.
The worst part? She'd look just as devastating in a potato sack. Every movement she makes sets my blood on fire. The way she moves, the subtle shift of muscle under the fabric, the graceful line of her neck when she tilts her head to read?—
I grip the knife at my belt, letting the bite of steel against my palm ground me. Seven and a half more hours of this torture to go.