All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

181 Chapters

Chapter 141 – Defended

KirBerlin at midnight in late winter. The cab drops us in a courtyard off Friedrichstrasse and the door has no handle on the outside.Oliver is buzzing.He’s been mouthy on the way over, the way he gets when he’s going to be mouthy on the cross, and I’ve been letting him. He’s needed this for nine days. We left Saint and Tariq in Norfolk five days ago. Dom, Max and Butcher stayed behind to guard them should anything happen. Oliver has been winding tighter every twenty-four hours since. I have him on the cross within forty minutes of walking through the door.Black leather harness across his chest. Cuffs at the wrists, at the ankles. The cock ring at the base of him. The collar at his throat. The lighting at this station is a single warm overhead that puts him in soft shadow at the edges and bright in the middle of the back, exactly where I want it. The room is half full, the music is low. I’m barely aware of anything but him."You’re going slow on purpose," he accuses."Yes.""

Chapter 142 – Speech

OliverThe next ten minutes are his.He told me they would be and he meant it. The first stroke after I’m back up to the level I was at before the German interrupted lands across the meat of my ass like a dropped cinder block.I jolt forward against the cross hard enough to feel the harness bite into the skin under my collarbones. The second one lands two inches lower. The third lands lower still, on the back of my thighs, in the soft place where the leather of the cross is not catching me, and I make a noise that sounds very much like screeching.He works in a pattern I can’t predict. He alternates side to side, then drops three in a row on the same spot until my breath catches, then moves. The stripes are layering on top of each other now. I can’t see them but I know by feel that the earlier marks are pink. The new ones are red. The newest are turning a color beyond red.The cock ring is doing what it’s meant to do. My cock is so hard it’s throbbing against the leather panel

Chapter 143 – Decompression

OliverWe’ve left Berlin and are now staying at a cabin in the middle of a frozen Swedish lake.Properly in the middle. The forest road that runs along the shoreline ended three kilometers back. The last kilometer to the front door was over the ice itself, in a borrowed pickup, headlights swinging across nothing but snow and the black trees on the far side of the bay. The cabin sits on a small wooded island that is technically an island in summer and not so much in winter because the lake is frozen so thick you could land a plane on it.One bedroom.A wood-burning sauna out the back. A kitchen with a gas range and a fridge stocked with reindeer steak, root vegetables, eggs, butter, two kinds of bread, and an alarming amount of pickled fish I’m not eating under any circumstances.Heating is electric and modern. The cabin smells like cedar and clean sheets and the faint pine of the woods outside. It should be idyllic.Kir is in the kitchen.I’m on the leather sofa near the wood-bur

Chapter 144 – Cane

OliverIt’s the third night of this goddamn standoff.The first night, I refused to light the wood-burner and slept in my clothes, pretending to be asleep when Kir came back from the sauna. The second night, I picked a fight over whether the curtains should be open or closed, lost it, and lay awake just listening to the heavy, even sound of his breathing.Tonight, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, watching him plate the lamb shanks I refused twice before finally caving. Because at some point, a man has to eat and it smells divine.Kir’s been making a concentrated effort to teach himself how to cook in the past two months and it’s apparently paying off.He’s pretending he hasn’t noticed I’m still not wearing the collar.He’s definitely noticed.The pouch is shoved at the bottom of my duffel under a hideous jumper I don't even like. He hasn’t asked. I haven’t put it on. We’re just two stubborn idiots suffocating in a small kitchen.He sets a plate in front of me. Lamb, mashed pota

Chapter 145 – Slow Morning

Kir I wake up before he does.My watch says it’s six-fourteen. Forty more minutes before the sun even pretends to come up here.He’s on his stomach next to me, face buried in the pillow, blond hair stuck to his forehead. The cinnamon oil from last night is mostly gone but there’s a faint dark streak on the sheet where he sweated through it. Two narrow lines mark the curve of his ass where the cane landed twice before he asked me to stop.He’s wearing the collar.He fell asleep in it. Didn’t ask me to take it off. The black leather sits at his throat against the pillow, the buckle catching the dim grey light from the window.I’m hard before I move.The man is wrecked and asleep and three days of being a huge pain in the ass have leaked out of him into the sheets and he’s finally, properly, mine again. The cane went in the bin already. I dropped it in the kitchen rubbish at three in the morning when I got up for water. I shift down the bed. Slow. He doesn’t stir.He’s deep unde

Chapter 146 – Errands

Kir It’s day five. Two days left in our cabin on the ice.Oliver is standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning, announcing he’s going into Stockholm for the day.He doesn’t phrase it as a question. He phrases it as an absolute fact. It’s that infuriating, stubborn tone he uses when he’s already made a decision, factored in my potential reaction, and decided he doesn't give a single fuck about asking for permission."For what?""Errands. I’ll be back this evening."He isn't looking at me. He’s buttering his second piece of toast with the careful, hyper-focused casualty of a man who’s rehearsed exactly how this conversation is going to play out in his head.I drink my coffee.I could push. I could back him into a corner and demand the truth. I could point out that we are in a cabin on a frozen lake, three kilometers from a plowed road, and Stockholm is a six-hour round trip by train. I could remind him that we have two days left here and he’s choosing to spend one of them si

Chapter 147 – Steel

Oliver I don’t say a word for the first five minutes, because the second I open my mouth Kir will know.He doesn’t comment on my silence. Only pulls me into the house.The cold cracks off me the second I step inside. He strips my coat. Hangs it. Drops to his knees and unties my boots like I’m a six-year-old dragged in from the snow with frozen laces. I let him. My tongue feels massive. My mouth feels like someone’s put a small piece of hot metal under it, which they have. My nipples are throbbing under the bandages.My cock has been carefully zip-tied into a special padded compression cup the piercer gave me with a brochure that said the words minimum two weeks about fourteen times.I’m also riding the biggest endorphin wave of my life.Outside of sex and playing with Kir of course.I look at him.He looks at me."You had some things pierced," he observes.How the hell does he know? I wanted it to be a big reveal.But being quiet this long is not my style and he’s too damn obser

Chapter 148 – Jewelry

Kir He sleeps until twelve.That is unprecedented. The man rarely sleeps past eight anymore. Usually he wakes up within ten minutes of me leaving the bed. The piercings put him under. That was a lot of pain to deal with on a single day.I wish he’d spaced it out to make it easier on his body, but that’s not Oliver’s style. When he wants something he wants it now.When he finally drags himself downstairs, his hair is a disaster, his mouth is visibly swollen, and he’s gripping the small bottle of sterile saline the piercer sent him home with.He sets it on the counter and looks at me pleadingly."Please help me."I want to laugh at the way the words come out, but I manage to keep a straight face."Of course, baby. What do you need me to do?""I’m not supposed to touch the nipple ones. They need to be sprayed and patted with the gauze. No fingers."He hands me the aftercare sheet. The Glasgow woman wrote three lines in aggressive block capitals at the bottom. NO FINGERS. SALINE TWIC

Chapter 149 – Healing

OliverSzentendre pretends winter isn't happening. Holiday lights strung between buildings that have been here since before Britain existed. Cobblestones polished slick from a thousand years of feet. We're in a yellow plaster cottage on a side street, two bedrooms, a tiled kitchen, an actual radiator hissing in the wall like a small annoyed snake.We left Sweden just over a week ago. The nipple bars are still a little tender. The PA is still healing. The tongue, though, the tongue is back online.Kir put a finger against the steel ball yesterday morning, just the pad of his thumb, and I haven't recovered.He's at the stove now, doing something violent to a pan of onions. It smells like every Hungarian grandmother's funeral I've never attended. Paprika, pork fat, something else I refuse to learn the word for because learning words for things in this country implies I plan to come back."You're going to burn it.""I'm not.""It shouldn’t be popping that much.""That is the onions

Chapter 150 – Tongue

Oliver He made me wait nine fucking days.Nine days of dry, sterile kisses that barely brushed my lips before he pulled away. Nine days of watching him stare at my mouth across the dinner table like he was fighting a losing war with his own goddamn impulses.But tonight? He cracked first. I want it on the record. I’m petty enough to keep score, and I won.The cottage is dead quiet except for the hum of the dishwasher. I’m sitting on the edge of the mattress, stripped down to my boxers, shivering a little. Kir told me to wait here ten minutes ago, but he’s still out there checking the locks, the windows, pacing the perimeter like he’s securing a crime scene before he destroys me in it.When he finally walks through the bedroom door, he locks it even though it’s just the two of us. It’s theater. Setting the scene.No one is breaking into this Hungarian shithole. The lock is just to remind me I’m trapped with him. My favorite place to be."Kirill.""Oliver." His voice is gravel."

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