All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

OliverKir suddenly stops in his tracks and stares. I look up at him in puzzlement.“What now?”He just points toward a section of the store, where dozens of harnesses hang neatly from a steel rack.Leather. Suede. Vinyl. Neoprene. Canvas. The options are staggering. Many are brightly colorful."Find the one you want," Kir tells me.I walk straight to the rack. The first few are basic. Just a simple chest strap and a thin waist belt. I skip them. I want the thing in the window. I sort through the hangers until I find it near the back.It’s black leather, with a thick collar that connects down the center of the chest to a heavy waist belt. Secondary straps branch off, designed to cage the ribs and wrap around the upper thighs. A leather strap runs from the middle of the back downwards, where it would go through the crack of my ass, connecting to a cock ring in the front. The cock ring is removable, so we’d be able to take it off and replace it with a different one, or leave it off e

Kir Max drops his heavy canvas duffel onto the hotel suite’s rug. The thud is loud enough to guarantee a noise complaint from the floor below."We hit the road in an hour," Oba says, scrolling through his phone. "The vehicles are fueled and waiting in the underground garage. We stagger the departure. Three cars, straight through to Prague."Dom grabs a grape from the room service platter on the coffee table. She tosses it into the air, catches it in her mouth, and points directly at Oliver."So," she says. "Are you going to tell us what you two actually did for the last three days, or are we just going to pretend you didn't completely fall off the map?"Oliver pauses with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "We didn't fall off the map. We were right here.""We haven't seen you since Tuesday," Tariq chimes in from the minibar. He’s pouring himself a glass of sparkling water. "We’re supposed to be laying low, not playing dead. I texted Kir twice to grab a beer and got left on read."

Kir Day five.Medical-grade steel doesn’t yield. It doesn’t soften with body heat, and it doesn’t stretch to accommodate hope.Oliver is losing his mind.I stand behind him in the narrow shower of the Berlin safehouse, the hot water beating down on my shoulders. We crossed the border from the Czech Republic two days ago. Oba secured a massive, brutalist loft in Kreuzberg while the syndicate scrambled to figure out how Viktorie Hanousek managed to incinerate herself inside a sealed laboratory.The team is currently spread out across the city, running surveillance on the next batch of targets. I’m in the bathroom, managing my own specific piece of operational maintenance."Spread your legs," I order over the hiss of the water.Oliver glares at me over his shoulder. His wet blonde hair sticks to his forehead. He shifts his feet an inch apart on the slippery white tiles. It is a deliberate, petty act of defiance.I wrap my hand around his left thigh and shove it outward until he’s stan

Oliver The morning after a scene like that always feels like breathing underwater. My blood is a thick, heavy syrup of endorphins. The frantic, exhausting noise in my head is completely gone. I’m just a body sunk into a mattress, stripped of my armor.I’m tangled in the sheets, my face smashed into a pillow that smells like Kir’s cedar soap. Then I notice the distinct absence of steel against my groin. The cage is gone. He must have unlocked it while I was unconscious.The second realization follows immediately. There is a specific, humid heat surrounding my cock.Kir’s mouth is on my cock.He refuses to give me any momentum. He isn't rushing. He’s just holding me in the wet heat of his mouth, his tongue dragging a lazy, agonizing path along the underside of the head.I should probably say something clever, or at least open my eyes, but the effort seems astronomical. I just let out a pathetic, gravelly sound into the pillow. My hips jerk toward his mouth involuntarily.Kir sto

Oliver The bathroom mirror is fogged around the edges, but the center is perfectly clear. I stand in front of it, staring at my reflection.The thick, matte black leather collar is still snug around my throat. It’s been there since Amsterdam. A constant, heavy reminder of exactly who I belong to. I love the weight of it. I love the way the metal O-ring rests in the hollow of my throat, constantly dragging my focus back to Kir, grounding the chaotic noise in my head into something quiet and manageable.But right now, the quiet is a liability.I reach up and trace the edge of the leather with my thumb. Behind me, the bathroom door is open. Kir is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He’s already dressed in dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt, watching me with that heavy, unblinking focus.He knows what I’m doing. He felt the shift in my energy ten minutes ago when my phone buzzed with the automated alert I’d set up on the syndicate’s offshore