Page 70 of Break Me Open
“You’re late,” I say, because I need to say something sane.
He glances at his watch. “Only a few minutes, Caiden. Control yourself.”
“Iamcontrolling myself.”
“Mm,” he says, stepping past me to unlock the jeep. “Try harder.” He knows exactly what he’s doing. The bastard.
He takes my bag from me, tossing it onto the back seat like it weighs nothing and climbs in. I follow, shutting the door before anyone can notice either of us leaving together.
The base noises fade as we roll out the gate, the guard waving us through, and just like that, we’re off base. No uniforms to salute, no regulations breathing down our necks, no steel walls listening. Just him and me, alone in a dark Russian wilderness.
Fantastic. No way this goes horribly for my self-control.
I keep my hands tightly clasped in my lap, because the urge to touch him is a full-body problem. His thighs spread slightly as he settles into the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed over his knee, maddeningly close to where I want to put mine. He notices me looking, then he gives me a look out of the corner of his eye, yeah, he’s definitely amused. “Relax,” he murmurs.
“I’m relaxed,” I say, sounding like someone being held at gunpoint.
“That’s funny,” he says, “because you look like you’re trying not to jump me.”
I choke on air. “I amnot—”
“Caiden.” My name in that tone should be illegal. It’s like he’s peeling the clothes off me with his voice. My hand tightens on my knee. If we keep going like this, I’m going to do something... desperate. I need a distraction.
“So, where are we going?”
“A cabin,” he says, flicking an amused glance at me.
“A cabin,” I repeat, less a question and more a prayer for survival.
“Mm, private, quiet, off grid,” he pauses and smirks at me. “Soundproof.”
Jesus Christ.
I stare out the window before I climb over the console and ruin everything. The forest rolls past in black shapes, white drifts, and the road is one long stretch of ice and moonlight. I need to think about something else. Anything else.
“So,” I say again, clearing my throat. “Tell me something.”
“That sounds dangerous,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Humour me.”
“What kind of something?” he asks, tapping the wheel with his thumb.
“I don’t know. Things I don’t know about you.”
His mouth curves.“You want to get to know me?”
“It’s called a conversation,” I mutter. “People do it.”
“I prefer other kinds of communication.”
“I’m aware,” I groan. “But conversation is what’s stopping me from grabbing your face while you’re driving, so pick something.”
He laughs, it’s warm, surprised, and it hits me square in the sternum. “Fine,” he says. “Ask.”
“What music do you listen to?” I blurt.
He gives me a look. “That’s your question?”
