Eleven
Caiden
The barracks are too fucking quiet tonight. Usually, there’s at least some noise. But tonight the whole place feels like it’s holding its breath, and my paranoia tells me it’s because of me somehow.
Well, more specifically, because of him — Ari fucking Zakirov.
I shut my locker harder than necessary, and the sound of metal clangs through the room.
I freeze as if that’ll help, my palms sweating against the thin metal door.
My pulse is still climbing, as if I sprinted here, making the blood rush behind my ears.
I yank my shirt over my head and toss it onto the bunk.
The others are out — night rotation, mess duty, cards somewhere — leaving the room mine for once.
Thank God. I need the space. Something dug under my skin today and hooked itself in with claws.
I’ve been doing a great job pretending it didn’t, but the second I close my eyes, all I see is Ari’s smirk.
“Nope,” I mutter it through clenched teeth. “No. I’m not doing this.”
I sit on the edge of the bunk and stare at the floorboards as if they’ll save me. Fucking bastard. Fucking beautiful bastard. I drag my fingers through my hair and suck in a long breath, but that only makes everything worse.
I slam my fist into the mattress beside me, making my fist sting. Great. Maybe pain will override everything else. My trousers are uncomfortably tight. Humiliatingly tight. I haven’t even touched myself yet.
I drop my head into my hands and laugh. “I hate you,” I whisper to the empty room.
I hate the way he looks at me like he’s already inside my head, and the way my stomach drops when he smirks.
I hate that he’s slightly younger, cockier, and he shouldn’t matter, but he does.
Somehow, he fucking does. And I hate — God, I hate — that he hasn’t kissed me.
Not even once. Like in the shower, he knew I wanted it, I wanted him, and he enjoyed denying me.
I stand abruptly, pacing once, twice, then stop because the pressure in my trousers is unbearable, and I’m one step away from going insane.
I yank open the locker again, grabbing a towel — why, I don’t know, maybe instinct — and I lock the door behind me.
I sit back on the bunk, towel under me, and finally let myself look down.
Yeah. Brilliant.
I’ve been hard for hours. I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m not. I’m too far past humiliation into something deeper, hotter, and more desperate. My palms drop to my thighs, sliding up slowly, and hesitating at the waistband. God, even that tiny touch sends a jolt through me.
He did this, with his filthy voice, thumb on my lip, and his breath hovering over my mouth, denying me like it was a goddamn game. “Fuck,” I whisper.
I undo the button, then the zip. I free myself, and the rush of cool air nearly undoes me right there.
As I grip my cock, my head falls back, and my eyes close.
My hand moves slowly at first, like I’m testing the water, but the second I picture Ari’s face, his smirk, his eyes with that look of heat and dare— My hips jerk, and I bite my lip to stop the sound that claws up my throat.
I stroke myself again, harder, faster. Because now my brain’s conjuring everything I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Ari, on his knees, hungry. Ari, pinning my wrists above my head.
Ari’s mouth ghosting my lips, whispering things in Russian I don’t understand but feel in my spine.
Ari saying ‘good boy’ in that tone he used when no one else could hear.
My breath breaks, and I fist myself harder, chasing the edge. My whole body is shaking with it as my back arches off the bunk, and my thighs begin to tremble.
I picture him again, leaning over me, kissing me the way he didn’t today, dragging his teeth over my lip, telling me what he’d do if he had me alone. “Please,” I whisper.
God. I’m begging, and he’s not even here.
The thought shreds what little restraint I had left.
The heat coils low, tight, and fucking vicious.
My hand moves in sharp, desperate jerks— I’m so close.
“Fuck, Ari—” The sound that rips out of me is half-growl, half-moan as I come hard, pulse after pulse spilling hot over my fingers and onto my stomach.
I collapse back against the mattress, shaking, my breathing ragged, and my heart pounding so fast it hurts.
My hand loosens and falls away. My skin tingles everywhere I imagined him touching, everywhere I want him to touch.
I drag the towel up and wipe myself off.
I’m dazed, as if I’ve just survived something I shouldn’t have.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling until my breathing steadies enough that I don’t sound like I’m dying.
Then I feel the humiliation. Not because I got myself off — that part’s normal enough.
But because I didn’t think of anyone else.
Not once. Not even for a second. Just the arrogant, smirking, chaos-worshipping menace who’s spent weeks pushing my buttons as if he installed them himself.
I shove a hand over my face and groan. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I whisper to no one. There’s no answer, there never is. But deep down, in a part of me I don’t want to look at too closely, I know exactly what’s wrong.
He’s in my head.
And he hasn’t even kissed me yet.