Twenty
Arseny
Caiden’s still breathing hard. I can hear it, feel it, every shaky exhale brushing my lips. Caiden Varrik, the man who glares at explosions and doesn’t flinch, is trembling against me because I told him to touch me.
He doesn’t even realise what it does to me. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, eyes closed, and he’s trying so hard not to grind against my hand, it’s almost sweet. I rest my forehead against his, letting my lips hover over his mouth. He doesn’t lean in. Not yet.
Good boy.
I let my hand drift from his jaw down to his throat, my fingers grazing the pulse still hammering there, just as a reminder of who put him in this state.
“Caiden,” I say quietly, tasting his name like something I could bite into.
“Look at me.” He does immediately, his eyes snapping open as if he were waiting for me to tell him what to do.
That’s the look I’ve been waiting for since I slammed him into the training mats and pretended it was sparring — submission, not fear.
Want, not confusion. A crack in the armour.
I sweep my thumb over his lips slowly. “You’ve been making noise all week,” I murmur.
“In your head, in your body, every time I walk past you.” He swallows hard and I lean in until my lips just ghost his ear.
“And now look at you. Hard and shaking for me because you finally learned how to say please with your hands.”
He tries to speak, “Arseny, I—” and I shut him up with a hard kiss, my fingers digging into his throat.
“Don’t talk,” I whisper, pulling back. “Not yet.” His hips roll slightly, grinding into my hand before he can stop himself.
“So needy,” I murmur, pressing just enough to make him groan.
“You think you hide it well, hm?” He shuts his eyes like the truth physically hurts.
“No,” I say softly. “Open them. I want you to watch me when I touch you.” He obeys, and it hits me how badly I want him, how long I pretend he didn’t crawl under my skin the night he kissed me like he wanted to tear my soul out through my teeth.
I push the thought away. Right now, I want his knees to give out. My fingers toy with his belt. “Tell me, Caiden,” I murmur. “How long have you wanted this? How long have you been waking up with me in your head?”
“Too long,” he whispers.
“You’re going to come for me,” I whisper. “Right here.”
My lips curl as I sink to my knees; the movement is slow, like a predator choosing when to strike. My fingers hover over his belt, teasing the buckle before I finally unfasten his trousers.
The fabric strains against the thick, heavy length of his cock, and he groans as my fingers release him from his boxers. “Fuck, Arseny,” he whispers, his voice cracking with the effort of holding back. I chuckle; my breath is warm against his skin.
Instead of taking him into my mouth, I lean in; my tongue flicks out to trace the thick vein running along the underside of his cock.
The contact is electric, a jolt that makes his thighs lock and his breathing stutter.
My lips follow, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, making Caiden’s hand shoot up and his fingers tighten his grip on the back of my head.
“Mmm,” I hum against his skin, the vibration sending another shudder through Caiden’s body. “Already dripping for me.”
“Ari… Please, fuck.”
His voice is a ragged whisper, his hips roll forward seeking more, but I pull back. “Begging already, detka?” My fingers wrap around the base of his cock, and his nails dig into my scalp when I give him one more long, slow lick before I finally take him into my mouth.
The taste of him is overwhelming; the wet suction of my mouth pulls a broken groan from his throat.
I don’t just suck, I devour as I take him deep, my throat opening around his thick head.
His knees nearly buckle, his fingers tangle in my long hair, holding me in place as he thrusts up into my eager throat.
“That’s... fuck— oh God,” he pants, his voice is rough and desperate.
I pull back, leaving his cock glistening, swollen and aching. My tongue traces his head, collecting the pre-cum before I meet his gaze. “You want to come, soldier?” I taunt, lowering my voice. “Or are you still pretending that my mouth doesn’t keep you up at night?”
Caiden’s body is trembling with the effort of not taking what he wants. “Fuck you,” he growls. My laugh is dark as I take him back into my mouth, this time with no mercy. My head bobs, and my throat works around the thick length, my fingers digging into his hips hard.
“Ari, I’m gonna—” A choked gasp cuts off his warning as I hollow my cheeks and my tongue presses against the underside of his cock.
The orgasm crashes over him like a wave.
It’s brutal and relentless. His cum spills into my mouth, and I swallow around him; my throat pulling every last drop from his shuddering body.
I finally pull away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
The smirk I wear now is pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
Silence settles between us for a minute, the only sound is the ragged rasp of Caiden’s breathing.
He watches me, dazed, as I stand, adjusting my clothes with slow, deliberate movements.
“Tasted even better than I thought it would,” I say as I open the door a crack, check that the hallway is empty, and step out. “See you soon, detka.”
Even before I step into the mess hall, I know he’s here. I can feel it. Some animals smell blood, others smell fear. I smell tension. His. Mine. It coils under my skin like a second pulse as I push open the door and step into the noise.
My eyes sweep the room automatically, and I spot him sitting at the table near the window. He’s sitting rigidly, staring at his food.
Good. He should be rattled; he should be ruined.
He looks up just once, one sharp, involuntary flick of his gaze, and the moment our eyes meet, he jerks his attention back down as if the eye contact burned him.
He’s trying his hardest not to look at me.
I take a slow step toward the food line, pretending not to see him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him shift in his seat, his elbow bumps the soldier beside him, then he mutters something.
I ladle something unidentifiable onto my tray, and three men salute me out of habit.
I ignore all of them. All my attention is on the British soldier trying not to fall apart in public.
When I finally move through the hall, I pass behind him. I don’t speak. I don’t even slow down. I let my hand drag lightly along his back; it’s barely a touch, but it’s enough to make him stiffen as if I’ve run an electric current up his back.
I sit two tables away, facing him. He doesn’t dare look up at first, but he caves eventually. It’s quick and accidental; I raise an eyebrow, and his face goes scarlet.
Let him remember the closet and how hard I made him come. I want him to think about my hands, my mouth, his own breathless noises pulled from his lips. I want him to want it — Because I do, more than is safe.
My fingers tap against my tray in an unconscious rhythm. I tell myself it’s satisfaction. But under that, there’s something else clawing at my insides.
Hunger.
It’s not the playful version of it — the teasing lip-bite, the whispered taunt, the smirk in a hallway. This is worse — I want him again.
Already.
And that’s a stupid, dangerous problem.
I push my food away and lean back in the chair, eyes fixed on the soldier who can’t stop looking at me, even when he tries to eat.
I look down at my hands; they’re steady and calm. But inside, I’m still in that closet, hearing his breath break and feeling his thighs shake against my grip. Still tasting him and hearing the whimper he tried to swallow.
And that is a very stupid problem, one I have no intention of fixing.