Thirty
Arseny
I wake up before Caiden does. My body is a machine about these things, dawn hits, and I’m up whether I want to be or not.
Normally, it’s fine. I go outside, smoke until my blood feels like it’s moving again, and ignore the world.
But today? I wake up with Caiden Varrik asleep on top of me.
Not beside me. On me. Chest to chest, his arm across my ribs, his leg tangled with mine, as if he decided sometime in the night that personal space is a myth.
My hand is already on his back, and I don’t remember putting it there.
His breath warms my sternum, and his hair tickles my throat.
He makes a soft sound when he shifts, like he’s trying to burrow closer, and I stare at the ceiling, feeling something rooted so deeply inside me that it clenches so sharply it borders on pain.
No, no, no. We are not doing this.
This, whatever this is, is dangerous in ways bullets aren’t. There are six weeks left before he leaves the country and this weekend becomes nothing but a thing that happened once in my cabin in the snow. Six weeks before he’s back in England, pretending this place didn’t get under his skin.
Pretending I didn’t.
I grit my teeth silently and try to ease my hand away from his back. He makes a quiet little noise — half protest, half instinct — and tightens his hold on me.
Oh, perfect. Absolutely perfect.
He has no idea how easily this could wreck both of us and not in the way the rules will. Not even in the way getting caught would.
The real danger is this... feeling.
Men like me don’t get this. Not without paying or losing something for it. I’ve had plenty of people who only wanted the sharp edges of me, not the parts underneath.
But this? This is new and alarming.
I can’t decide whether I want to shake him awake or lock us both in this moment and never move.
I press the back of my head into the pillow, trying to breathe around the pressure building inside. He’s leaving in six weeks, and yeah, sure, we’ll kiss again, we’ll touch again, we’ll probably ruin each other again before then, but it won’t matter. Time is already running out.
I don’t want to think about what happens when he goes. I don’t want to picture walking through the barracks and not having him there to annoy, pin against a wall, or drag into dark corners. I definitely don’t want to imagine him going home and forgetting this ever meant anything.
Fuck. Why does that thought hurt?
He shifts again, murmurs something against my chest, and some unhelpful part of me softens at the sound. Stop it. Stop that right now.
This is lust, that’s all. Physical attachment, a weekend where we let the tension snap.
Bodies wanting what they want. I’ve repeated that, over and over again.
But it’s not working anymore. He does something to me.
He gets under my skin, calms parts of me I didn’t realise were loud, and wakes up the pieces I thought I’d burned out years ago.
And I hate it.
I hate that it feels good, and I don’t want to move him. I hate that the thought of tomorrow — of going back to the base, pretending none of this existed — it makes my stomach roll.
I’m not going to tell him any of this, obviously. I’m not deranged. If I say anything, he’ll overthink it, panic, and we’ll both end up miserable. What’s the point of that? So, I’ll keep it inside, where all dangerous things belong.
He breathes out and rubs his cheek unconsciously against my chest. I roll over onto my side slowly, holding him to me, taking him with me.
He stirs slightly but stays asleep. I ease my arm free inch by inch, careful not to wake him.
He makes a low sound in his throat and shifts, automatically following the lost warmth.
I slide out of bed and pull on joggers and a T-shirt, distracting myself with routine. The cabin is quiet except for the fire settling and the faint hiss of wind against the walls. I move around the kitchenette on autopilot, kettle, cups, coffee grounds, doing anything that lets my hands stay busy.
The kettle clicks off. I pour the water, inhale the bitter steam, and take a slow swallow that burns just enough to keep me standing. This is fine. This is exactly what it’s supposed to be. A weekend. A detour.
Behind me, the mattress creaks, and I close my eyes briefly, reminding myself that control is a choice.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
I turn and see him sitting up, sheet pooled around his hips, hair sticking up in a way that would be funny if it wasn’t distracting as hell.
He blinks at me, then at the mug in my hand.
“You’re gripping that like you’re mad at it,” he says.
“I am,” I reply flatly. “It knows what it did.” He snorts and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
The sheet slips, but he doesn’t reach for it, and I don’t look away.
He stretches, his arms up over his head, his muscles pulling and shifting in an absolutely deliberate way.
He glances at me sideways, his mouth tilted in that infuriating smile.
He knows exactly what he’s doing
“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m just stretching.”
“You’re doing it naked,” I say.
“Is that a crime now?” he asks, standing up, completely unbothered, and pads across the floor.
He pauses right in front of me, close enough that the heat between us is impossible to ignore.
“You look like you need a shower.” Then he walks past me.
Just like that. Straight toward the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.
I stand there for a few seconds, staring at the empty space in the bed he left behind. Whatever fragile restraint I had cobbled together since waking up evaporates entirely.
I dump my mug in the sink, stripping my shirt and joggers off as I go, and follow him.
The bathroom is small and already fogging up.
He’s under the spray, his head tipped forward, hands braced on the tile.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears me.
“Took you long enough,” he says. I don’t answer him; instead, I step inside and shut the door.
My hands are already on him, my fingers sliding over his wet skin, turning him around with a force that steals the smugness right off his face. His back hits the tile, the water splashes around our ankles, and my mouth finds his before he can say another word.
It’s not frantic, but it’s not careful either.
It’s the kind of kiss that settles something, that says, ‘This is happening, you did this to me.’ His hands come up, grabbing at the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
I break away just long enough to grab his ass and drag my mouth along his jaw, down to his neck, my teeth grazing skin that’s already too sensitive.
He exhales sharply, his head tipping back without thinking. I smile against his throat. “You’re annoying,” I murmur.
“And yet,” he says, breathless now, “here you are.” I kiss him again, slower this time.
My hands run over his waist, his stomach, and his chest, like I won’t have the chance to do this later.
The water drums down around us, and the world shrinks in.
For this moment, nothing exists outside this room.
I need to not think about tomorrow. I need to not think about departures or planes or time running out.
Instead, I think about his mouth, his hands, the way he touches me, kisses me, leans into me like this is exactly where he wants to be.
A groan rumbles in his chest as my hands grip his hips, yanking him flush against me. Our cocks grind together; the friction drives me crazy. I can feel every ridge of his abs against mine, and the way his cock pulses against mine, already dripping, already desperate for me.
I break the kiss just long enough to gasp when my hand wraps around both our shafts, and I stroke them together.
Pre-cum slicks my fingers as I work us. Our cocks slide against each other, the heads bump, and the veins throb.
Caiden groans into my mouth, and his hips jerk upward, fucking into my grip.
The water pounds down on us, running in rivulets down my back, my ass, and my thighs.
His hand slides down my back, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and I love it.
Fuck, I crave it. “Goddamn,” I growl against his lips. “Look at you. Already so hard for me.”
He smirks, even as his cock jerks in my grip. “You like that, don’t you? Knowing I can’t fucking resist you.” My answer is a sharp bite to his lower lip. My teeth sink in just enough to sting before I soothe it with my tongue.
Then I’m spinning him again, pressing him face-first against the tiles. My body cages him in, and I press my thick and heavy cock against him, dragging it against his ass, and I know his hole will be clenching, empty and aching for me, needing me deep inside him.
My hand slides down his back, my fingers tracing the dip of his spine before gripping his hip, and pulling him back against me. “Spread your legs,” I command. He obeys without hesitation, widening his stance and bracing his hands against the wall.
My cock nestles between his cheeks, teasing his entrance.
I brush my lips against his skin, making him shiver as I lean in, grabbing the coconut oil from the shelf — good enough.
“You want this?” I ask, my oiled fingers sliding lower, tracing his crack and circling his hole with just enough pressure to make him groan.
“Want me to fuck this tight ass of yours until you can’t even remember your own name? ” I rasp, dripping oil on my cock.
“Fuck yes,” he hisses, pushing back against my touch.
“Stop teasing and fuck me.” I chuckle against his neck, and then my fingers are gone, replaced by the thick, blunt head of my cock.
He bites his lip, and his body tenses as I press forward, breaching him with one slow, relentless thrust. The burn is instant, stretching him open as I sink deeper, my cock filling him slowly, inch by inch, until my hips are flush against his ass.
“Fuck,” he groans, his forehead dropping against the tiles, and his fingers curling into fists. “Just like that,” he moans. I give him a minute to adjust, then I pull back and slam into him.
My cock pistons in and out with deep, punishing strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the steam-filled air. My hands grip his hips, and my fingers dig in as I fuck him with an unrelenting rhythm.
“Touch yourself,” I growl, “I want to feel you come while I’m buried inside you.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. He wraps one arm around the back of my neck and the other around his cock, stroking frantically, arching his back into me.
Pleasure coils tight in my gut, my balls draw up, my cock throbs in the tight grip of him. Caiden’s pace on his cock quickens, my chest presses against his back, my cock hits that spot inside him that makes him whimper, and his vision blur over and over again.
“That’s it,” I growl, my hips snap forward, my cock burying to the hilt. “Fucking take it, detka.”
He gasps, his strokes become frantic, his cock leaks, and his body trembles violently. “Fuck, I’m—I’m—”
“Come for me,” I snarl, my fingers dig into his flesh hard, leaving more marks.
His cock erupts, cum splatters against the shower wall, mixing with the water streaming down.
His body locks up, his ass clenches around my cock as pleasure tears through him.
I groan, my cock pulses inside him as I bury myself deep and come, filling him up as I grunt his name.
We collapse against each other, both of our bodies trembling, our breaths ragged. The water continues to pour over us, washing away the cum and sweat, but the heat between us still hangs in the air. I press a kiss to the back of his neck, my lips linger, and my cock is still buried inside him.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, needing to forget that later exists.