Page 31 of Break Me Open
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.
Twelve
Arseny
The thing about respect is that people think it’s about salutes, titles, and who’s got more metal on their chest. Respect is simpler than that. Which is why when the British Lance Corporal decides to grow a spine in front of an entire joint training session, I decide he needs a reminder.
We’re in the gym — if you can call it that. Concrete floor with scuffed mats that have seen more blood than bleach, and windows too high up to see anything but sky. Niko’s running a joint session in hand-to-hand integration. It’s nice neutral ground with half my unit and half theirs, mixed together, like dogs sniffing each other’s backsides.
I’m supposed to be assisting with demonstrations and corrections. They don’t let me do PowerPoints, but they let me teach people how not to die. I’m good at it. “Again,” I bark, louder than strictly necessary. “If you throw a punch like that at a Spetsnaz unit, they’ll send it back with interest.”
The poor British private in front of me flushes, adjusts his stance, and throws again. It’s not great, but better. I shove his elbow down and twist his hip. “There,” I say. “Now you’re a threat instead of a suggestion.” Someone snorts, but he’s too far back for me to see. My hackles go up anyway.
We’re in a mid-joint grappling demo with Niko explaining in slow, careful English about the centre of gravity and leverage. I’m paired with one of our sergeants to show a basic takedown, nothing fancy.
“Questions?” Niko calls. One of the Brits lifts a hand — not Caiden, the other one with the stupid laugh.
“Yeah, sir, just… what about if the opponent’s heavier?” he asks. “Some of us aren’t exactly built like tanks.”
Niko smirks. “That’s why you use technique, not just weight. My brother will show you. Arseny?” He nods at me.
I let Sergei take me down slowly, then I reverse and pin him with half the effort, talking through the mechanics. They watch carefully. Some understand, and others pretend to. It’s fine, makes no difference to me.
“Right, but it’s a bit different when the guy’s trying to take your head off, isn’t it?” A voice says from the British cluster. I don’t have to look to know who it is. Lance Corporal ‘I don’t have a death wish, I just behave like it’ Caiden Varrik.
Niko hears it too and his brows twitch. He chooses diplomacy. “That’s true,” he says. “But you train slow so you can move fast. You build muscle memory before you add panic. Otherwise, you teach your body to flail, not fight.”
Caiden doesn’t shut up. “Respectfully, sir,” he says, and I can hear the capital letters on ‘respectfully.’ “We’ve done live exercises before. It’s not always this... controlled.”
Controlled. My lips curl.
Niko opens his mouth, probably to say something sensible, soothing, and full of cross-cultural empathy. But I get there first. “You have something to add, Lance Corporal?” I say, letting my voice carry. Heads turn, and the room does that subtle shift where everyone pretends they’re not suddenly much more interested.
Caiden’s jaw flexes. He didn’t mean to speak that loudly, and he definitely didn’t mean for me to pick it up like a dropped grenade. But it’s too late now. We both know it. He could back down. Easy.“No, Sergeant.” “Just thinking aloud, Sergeant.” “Won’t happen again, Sergeant.”Men do it all the time.
Swallow it.
Walk itback.
