Breach - 2

Chapter Two:

Close Quarters

Cain didn’t sleep.

Not because he couldn’t—but because he wouldn’t. Not in this place. Not under this roof. Not with Saxon Rivera walking around shirtless, barefoot, and smoking like he wasn’t the most wanted man in the city and the reason Cain’s cock was half-hard and aching since the second he walked through the goddamn door.

He sat on the edge of the guest bed in his private quarters, left foot braced on the floor, a gun resting in his hand, the safety on.

The walls were too thin.

Or maybe Saxon moaned just loud enough for him to hear it.

On purpose.

Cain ground his teeth, cock straining against the front of his tactical pants, and muttered, “This is hell.”

And it was only day one.

———

08:00 A.M.

Saxon walked into the breakfast lounge like he owned the air.

The bastard wasn’t even trying.

Loose white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar open far enough to expose the dip of his throat and the faint outline of the gold chain he used to wear in secret. Slacks tailored to sin. Bare feet.

And that smirk—that lazy, I-know-you-want-it expression—pinned directly at Cain, who was standing by the large tinted window scanning for movement.

“You’re early,” Saxon said, grabbing a mug and pouring black coffee from the carafe. “I thought special ops liked to lurk in the dark.”

Cain didn’t flinch. “I’ve been up since five. Checked the perimeter. Cleared the camera blind spots. Reinforced the east-side sensors. Replaced your idiot guards on rotation.”

Saxon took a long sip. “Always so efficient. Makes me wonder what else those hands can do.”

Cain turned, slow and lethal. “You want to keep talking like that?”

Saxon shrugged, sipping. “I thought we were being honest now.”

“You wouldn’t know honest if it bent you over the kitchen counter and—”

“Do it then,” Saxon interrupted. Calm. Taunting. Filthy.

He lowered the mug and looked him dead in the eye.

“Or are you scared I’ll make you beg again?”

Cain closed the distance between them in three slow, thunderous steps.

He didn’t touch him.

But fuck, he wanted to.

He backed Saxon into the marble counter, braced one arm beside his head, and leaned in—nose nearly grazing Saxon’s cheek.

“I’m not scared of you,” Cain growled.

Saxon whispered, “Then prove it.”

Cain pulled back—breathing hard, chest tight—and grabbed the remote on the counter. With one click, the massive smart TV lit up, showing a full surveillance feed of the estate.

“See this?” Cain snapped, ignoring the arousal between them. “This is what I’m here for. To make sure someone doesn’t put a bullet between your pretty eyes while you’re busy playing brat.”

Saxon’s smile curled like smoke. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”

Cain slammed the remote down.

Saxon didn’t even flinch.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Cain said, voice cool and commanding. “From now on, you follow my rules. You don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t speak to anyone without me vetting them. You do not leave the property, and you do not test me again—unless you want this entire house crawling with my men, and you monitored 24/7.”

Saxon blinked slowly. “What if I enjoy being watched?”

Cain stared. “Then we’ll put cameras in your shower and broadcast it to the staff.”

Saxon’s lips twitched. “Kinky.”

Cain turned his back before he made a mistake.

“I want full access to your daily schedule,” he said, voice hardening. “Every phone call, every visitor, every meal. If I find a blind spot—”

“You’ll what?” Saxon asked, already behind him again. His voice dropped. “Punish me?”

Cain whipped around and slammed his hand flat against Saxon’s chest, shoving him back against the wall with a low thud. Their bodies didn’t touch—barely an inch of space between them—but the air was crackling, tight, sexual.

Saxon inhaled sharply.

Cain’s voice was razor-wire. “Don’t test me again.”

Saxon’s eyes gleamed. “What happens if I do?”

Cain leaned in, whispering just against his jawline.

“I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

Then he stepped back.

And walked out.

———

14:20 P.M.

Saxon found Cain in the command room reviewing heat signatures and data from last night’s surveillance.

He didn’t knock. Just leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms, watching Cain work—sleeves rolled, knife holster tight to his thigh, brow furrowed in silent concentration.

“Your jaw’s still as tense as your dick,” Saxon said.

Cain didn’t look up. “You’re testing boundaries.”

“I’m not disobeying,” Saxon countered. “I’m exploring.”

“You’re provoking,” Cain snapped, finally turning. “You think this is a game?”

“I think,” Saxon said slowly, “you like being provoked.”

Cain stood.

Slow. Quiet. Lethal.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked flatly.

Saxon blinked.

Cain took a step closer. “No smart mouth. No games. Just answer.”

Saxon swallowed. “Yes.”

Cain nodded once. Then whispered:

“Then you don’t get to ask for it. Not anymore.”

Saxon’s breath hitched.

Cain stepped even closer—mouth at Saxon’s ear now.

“You’ll beg for it,” he rasped. “And I’ll say no. Every time. Until you learn how to behave.”

He walked out again, leaving Saxon hard, breathless, and furious.

———

19:46 P.M.

Dinner was quiet.

Until it wasn’t.

“New guard at the east wing,” Cain said, eyes locked on his fork. “Name’s Luca. Young. Ex-marine. Can’t be older than twenty-six.”

Saxon arched a brow. “You’re not usually this talkative about your staff.”

“I’m not usually hired to protect someone who licks his lips every time a man under thirty walks by.”

Saxon froze. Then leaned forward slowly, like a predator sniffing blood.

“Are you jealous?”

Cain’s fork clattered onto the plate. He stood.

Saxon followed.

“Wait—oh my god. You are.”

He smirked wide. “Jesus, Cain. You used to be better at hiding it.”

Cain grabbed the collar of Saxon’s shirt and yanked him forward, slamming him against the dining table so hard the cutlery jumped.

“You want to act like a slut in front of my men?” Cain hissed.

Saxon grinned through his panting. “Then fuck me like one.”

Cain’s restraint cracked.

He shoved Saxon onto the table, chest flat against the wood, and gripped his wrists behind his back with one hand. The other hand slid down to Saxon’s ass—tight, perfect, begging to be claimed.

“Tell me to stop,” Cain growled, already grinding into him.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Saxon rasped.

Cain undid his belt. Fast. Rough. This wasn’t love. It was war.

He tugged Saxon’s pants down to his thighs, exposing the curve of his ass. He didn’t prep. Didn’t ease. Just grabbed a bottle of oil from the sideboard, slicked his fingers, and shoved one deep inside.

Saxon gasped. “Fuck—Cain—”

“That’s it,” Cain said darkly. “You want attention? Take it.”

A second finger. Harder.

Saxon whimpered, writhing under him. “Harder—”

Cain slapped his ass, loud. “You don’t give orders here.”

He lined himself up, pressed in slowly—inch by inch—until Saxon arched like a bow and hissed, “Oh my fucking god—yes—”

Cain held his hips, pulled back, and slammed in hard enough to make Saxon cry out.

There was no rhythm. No patience. Just raw, punishing thrusts that left Saxon gasping and twitching, face pressed to the table, wrists pinned.

“You like being used, don’t you?” Cain snarled. “You like being mine again.”

Saxon moaned. “Yes—yes, Cain—fuck—I’m yours—”

Cain bent low and bit the back of Saxon’s neck.

“I never stopped owning you.”

Saxon came untouched—shuddering, moaning, broken.

Cain didn’t stop.

Not until Saxon was limp, marked, dripping.

He pulled out, breathing hard, and leaned against the wall—shirt open, cock still wet.

Saxon turned his face, eyes glazed.

“That the kind of protection I can expect every night?”

Cain smirked, voice ragged. “Only if you keep misbehaving.”