Breach - 3

Chapter Three:

I Dare You

06:43 A.M.

The surveillance footage didn’t lie.

Cain watched the loop again, arms folded tightly across his chest. Saxon—barefoot, shirt half-unbuttoned—was in the east courtyard last night with Luca, the new guard. Laughing. Smirking. Standing too close. Touching his shoulder.

Cain didn’t see a threat.

He saw a game.

And he was about to end it.

—

08:10 A.M.

The estate’s training room was a brutal stretch of reinforced floors, wall-to-wall mirrors, and weapon racks lining every edge. It was Cain’s favorite room. His sanctuary. The only place he could release what Saxon kept caging inside him.

Until today.

Because today, Saxon walked in.

Tight black compression shirt. Black joggers. Freshly showered. Still damp. And smiling like the devil had handed him a dare.

Cain didn’t look at him. Not at first.

He just kept punching the heavy bag—thud, thud, thud—his knuckles wrapped, his jaw set.

“Your technique’s gotten sloppy,” Saxon said behind him. “Or maybe you’re just angry.”

Cain landed a final blow that rocked the bag sideways, then turned. “You’re not cleared for this room.”

Saxon took a step closer. “I’m cleared for anything I want.”

Cain grabbed a towel, wiped sweat from his neck, and tossed it onto the bench. “Get out.”

Saxon ignored him, sauntering toward the mirrored wall and picking up a training dagger from the rack. “Still like your toys, I see.”

Cain stared. “That’s not a toy.”

Saxon flipped the blade between his fingers, testing its weight like he knew what the fuck he was doing. “Then show me how to use it.”

Cain walked up slowly—each step deliberate.

He stopped inches away. Looked down at Saxon’s hands.

“Hold it tighter,” he said flatly. “You’re going to cut yourself.”

“Maybe I want to bleed a little.”

Cain ripped the blade from his hand and threw it across the room. It clattered hard against the mat.

Saxon blinked.

Cain grabbed his wrist and shoved him against the mirror—forearm pressed to his throat, body caging him in.

“You think this is a fucking joke?” Cain growled.

Saxon smirked. “No. I think this is foreplay.”

Cain shoved harder. “Keep testing me, Rivera. I dare you.”

Saxon’s breath hitched.

Cain’s lips grazed his jaw. “Say one more thing. See what happens.”

Saxon’s voice was a whisper. “Luca said I smelled good last night.”

Cain snapped.

He yanked Saxon away from the mirror and threw him onto the padded mat, pinning him beneath his weight, legs spread, both wrists locked above his head in one strong hand.

Saxon was panting, eyes blown wide. “Do it.”

Cain leaned in.

Pressed his cock right against Saxon’s.

And whispered, “No.”

Saxon blinked. “What?”

Cain smirked. “You want to act like a tease? You don’t get to come.”

Saxon growled, squirming. “Cain—”

Cain released his wrists, stood, and adjusted his pants. “You’ll wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For when I decide you’ve earned it.”

He turned and walked out.

Saxon lay there, hard, panting, furious.

And leaking.

—

11:55 A.M.

Cain sat in the security control room, watching Saxon pace the courtyard like a caged animal. He wasn’t stupid—he knew what denial did to him. What a denied orgasm felt like for Saxon Rivera, a man used to being worshipped, touched, fucked on demand.

This?

This was Cain reclaiming power.

And fuck, it felt good.

—

14:00 P.M.

Saxon showed up to lunch late. Shirtless. Sweaty. Hair damp from a workout that Cain hadn’t approved. He strutted in like nothing mattered, dropped into the seat across from Cain, and poured himself a glass of sparkling water.

“You look tense,” Saxon said.

Cain didn’t answer.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Saxon continued, lifting the glass to his lips. “About earning it.”

Cain’s jaw clenched.

Saxon licked a drop off the rim.

“I don’t remember you being into chastity.”

Cain’s fork froze mid-bite. “Don’t test me, Saxon.”

“But that’s the fun part,” he purred.

Cain stood, palms flat on the table. “Upstairs. Now.”

Saxon grinned and rose slowly, smug.

“I knew you’d break first.”

—

14:07 P.M.

Cain shoved Saxon into the bedroom, slammed the door shut with his foot, and locked it. He grabbed a length of soft black rope from the drawer—Saxon’s, of course—and ordered:

“Strip.”

Saxon’s smile dropped.

Cain’s voice dropped lower. “You have ten seconds.”

Saxon tore his shirt off, joggers next, until he stood there—naked, flushed, erect, and waiting.

Cain walked a slow circle around him.

“No touching. No talking. Hands behind your back.”

Saxon obeyed.

Cain tied his wrists together—tight, but not painful. He admired the way Saxon looked like that: bound, vulnerable, angry.

Needful.

“You like control,” Cain said quietly.

“I like you when you’re like this,” Saxon whispered.

Cain grabbed his chin. “No. You like being ruined.”

He shoved him down onto the bed, face-first, and straddled his hips, grinding down against his ass with slow, agonizing friction.

Saxon whimpered. “Please.”

Cain bent low and bit his shoulder. “Not yet.”

He reached beneath Saxon’s body, found his cock, hard and leaking.

Cain stroked it once.

Twice.

Then let go.

Saxon cursed.

Cain stood and walked toward the bathroom, unbuckling his belt as he went.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Saxon shouted, breathless.

Cain looked back over his shoulder.

“To shower. Alone.”

Saxon thrashed on the bed, rock hard and desperate.

Cain smiled.

“Maybe if you behave tomorrow… I’ll let you come.”

—

17:30 P.M.

Cain stood in the west tower, overlooking the perimeter. Rain had started to fall—just a mist. He liked this view. It helped him think.

Footsteps behind him.

He didn’t need to turn. He already knew.

“You’re quiet,” Saxon said.

Cain replied without looking. “You’re still hard.”

Saxon laughed bitterly. “You’re a sadist.”

Cain turned. “And you’re addicted to punishment.”

They stared at each other.

Then Saxon moved.

He walked up to Cain, grabbed him by the shirt, and kissed him—hard. Desperate. Teeth and lips and rage.

Cain responded in kind.

This wasn’t about rules anymore.

This was fire.

Cain shoved Saxon against the glass window—rain streaking down behind them—and kissed him until Saxon gasped.

“Do it,” Saxon whispered. “Do it now. Please—”

Cain reached between them. Fisted Saxon’s cock.

One rough stroke. Two. Three—

Saxon came with a hoarse cry, head thrown back, eyes shut tight, body trembling.

Cain kissed him once more.

Soft this time.

Then walked away again.

“Tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll learn to ask better.”