NINE
CAIDEN
I wake up slowly with a solid, warm weight behind me and an arm looped over my waist with careless certainty.
Ari’s breath brushes the back of my neck; it’s steady, deep, the kind of sleep that comes after exhaustion, release, and something like peace.
I lie there for a few minutes without moving, counting sensations like I might need to memorise them later.
The faint ache in my muscles, the warmth along my spine, the low crackle of the fire, and the pale light seeping through the cabin window.
I shift, just a fraction, testing whether the illusion holds, as I’ve had this very dream countless times.
His nose presses into my hair, his arm tightens immediately around me, holding me close.
It’s possessive in a way that makes me feel warm and fuzzy.
“Where are you going?” he murmurs, his Russian accent thick with sleep.
“Nowhere,” I whisper. “Just checking you didn’t disappear.” There’s a pause, then his lips brush my shoulder.
“Still here,” he mutters, and I smile into the pillow before he can see it. Ari shifts behind me, draping himself more fully along my back, his chin hooking over my shoulder, and his body fitting comfortably against mine.
“Mm.” His hand slides down my chest, his palm finally resting against my stomach. I turn my head enough to look at him and see he’s watching me through half-lidded eyes.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. He considers that, his eyes flicking down my body slowly in an entirely deliberate way.
“For food?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Then also yes.” I laugh and roll my eyes.
We end up in the kitchen because there’s nowhere else to go.
The cabin is small enough that every movement puts us in each other’s space, shoulders brushing, hands colliding, the easy friction of proximity.
I crack eggs into a pan while he steals a piece of bread off the counter and eats it plain, leaning against the wall like he’s supervising.
“You cook like you’re planning an ambush,” he observes.
“I cook like I don’t trust hot oil.”
“Cowardice.”
“Says the man who flinched when the kettle whistled.” He snorts and steps in behind me, his arms loose around my waist, chin resting against my shoulder.
“This is strange,” he says quietly.
“Bad strange?”
“No.” His mouth curves. I understand exactly what he means. It feels like a lifetime ago that we were doing this very same thing for the first time.
We eat standing up. He leans against the counter, watching me like he’s still half-convinced I’m a hallucination. Now and then, his hand rests on my hip; his fingers graze me lightly like he’s checking I’m still there. I pretend not to notice, and he pretends he’s not doing it on purpose.
After, we layer up. Coats. Scarves. Gloves. Ari moves with the efficient economy of someone who’s lived in the cold all his life, helping me with my scarf without comment when I fumble it. “Walk,” he says. “Before I lose my mind.”
Outside, the world is white and quiet. Snow blankets the trees and ground, softening everything and swallowing sound.
The air is sharp enough to burn, but the sky is clear, pale, and endless.
We crunch through the snow side by side, leaving parallel tracks, shoulders bumping into each other now and then.
We haven’t talked much since last night, which, to be fair, there’s no need to.
Ari points out different things, trees, animal tracks, naming all of them in Russian, and I nod as if I understand, which earns an eye roll from him.
At some point, because I am apparently incapable of self-preservation, I scoop up a handful of snow and throw it at him, hitting him square in the back.
He stops and slowly turns. Oh. That was a mistake. “You chose violence?” he asks mildly.
“I regret nothing,” I lie, already backing up.
His mouth curves into something feral and delighted.
“You should.” I don’t get far; he tackles me into the snow with a shout that turns into laughter as we go down, our limbs tangling, the cold seeping instantly through my clothes.
The impact knocks the breath out of me as he pins me there, his knees braced on either side of my hips, snow clinging to his lashes and hair, his grin wide and unrepentant.
“This was a tactical error,” I gasp.
“You’re learning,” he says, leaning down. I shove at his shoulder, and he lets me flip him, landing with a grunt. I straddle him, breathless, laughing, the snow soaking through my jeans.
“Give in,” I tell him.
“Make me,” he replies, so I kiss him, hard, messy, and laughing into it. His hands grip my thighs like anchors, and the cold fades into background noise, replaced by heat, want, and the way he sounds when I bite his lip.
We don’t finish the walk.
We stumble back to the cabin half-frozen and flushed.
Ari slams the door shut behind us with a finality that sends a shiver down my spine — not from the cold, but from the way his body presses against mine the second we cross the threshold.
His mouth crashes into mine before I can even take a breath, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, sending my rational thinking off into orbit.
My hands grip his jacket to yank him closer.
Ari’s fingers are rough as they pull at the zipper of my jacket, peeling it off me with a growl low in his throat.
The sound vibrates against my lips, sending a jolt straight to my cock.
I break the kiss long enough to rip my shirt over my head and toss it aside.
Ari’s hands are on me instantly, his palms flat against my chest, his fingers digging into the muscle like he’s testing my strength — or reminding me of his.
His touch is possessive, bordering on painful, and fuck if that doesn’t make me harder.
My hands fight with the hem of his T-shirt, yanking it up to expose the rigid planes of his torso.
I drag my fingers down the deep V leading down to his jeans, tracing the lines with my fingertips, feeling the way his muscles tense under my touch, before shoving his jacket off, then pulling the shirt the rest of the way off.
Ari’s mouth finds mine again; his teeth nip at my lower lip hard enough to draw a hiss.
His hands drop to my belt, his fingers working the buckle, and I mirror the movements on his.
His combat boots hit the floor one after the other, being kicked aside with impatient force, and I follow suit, my own boots thumping against the wood.
The cold has seeped up through my socks, but it’s nothing compared to the fire licking up my spine as Ari’s hand slides into my jeans, and his palm wraps around my cock with a grip that borders on cruel.
“Jesus,” I groan into his mouth, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
He chuckles, low and dark, his thumb swiping over the slick head before pulling back.
The loss of his touch makes me want to snarl, but before I can protest, he spins me around, slamming my chest against the wall.
The wood is cold and rough against my skin, and the impact knocks the air from my lungs.
Ari’s body presses against my back, his chest heaving, his cock a thick ridge against my arse through his jeans.
“Hands on the wall,” he orders, his voice a low rumble in my ear.
His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my throat.
I can feel his lips curl into a smirk against my skin as he drags his mouth along the tendon, nipping, the threat of a bite making my pulse spike. “Don’t fucking move.”
I don’t. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
The command in his voice locks my muscles in place; my palms flatten against the wall as his free hand disappears.
My stomach twists, the anticipation, and something darker coiling tight in my gut.
I’d known this was coming, but the reality of it has my cock throbbing.
My jeans and boxers are pulled down, and his fingers find my arse, unyielding as they press against my hole.
I bite back a moan, my nails digging into the wood as he circles it with his finger, the pressure just shy of painful.
Then — fuck — he pushes in. No warning, no gentle stretch, just two slick fingers breaching me in one rough thrust. The burn is instant; my body resists even as my cock jerks.
Ari groans, his breath hot against my ear. His fingers twist, scissoring inside me with a brutality that has my knees threatening to buckle. I can only gasp and moan as he crooks his fingers, hitting that spot inside me that knocks my brain offline.
My cock aches, desperate for friction, but Ari’s other hand is still fisted in my hair, holding me in place, his hips rolling and grinding against my arse.
A whimper tears from my throat, my body betraying me as I push back against his fingers, taking them deeper. The stretch burns, but it’s the good kind of pain — the kind that makes my balls draw up tight, and my cock leak like a fucking faucet.
Ari adds a third finger, stretching me wider, his knuckles pressing against my rim with every thrust. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t walk straight for a week, detka,” he promises, his voice a rough rasp and his fingers pistoning in and out.
I’m already so close.
My body trembles with the effort of holding back as Ari’s fingers curl inside me again, hitting that spot with ruthless precision. “Please,” I grind out, my voice rough with frustration, my body still trembling. His fingers flex inside me, just enough to make me gasp, but he doesn’t pull out.