All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

ButcherI like violence. I wouldn’t be in this line of work if I didn’t. But I like my violence predictable, measured, and applied with a specific purpose.Kir is usually the king of measured violence. He operates like a metronome. Tick, tick, dead. He plans the angles, calculates the variables, and executes the target without wasting a single ounce of energy or a single round of ammunition.Tonight, the metronome is broken.We’re stacked up outside the service entrance of the Aegis Club. The rain is a miserable, steady drizzle that slicks the alleyway. Saint is idling the van twenty yards back, the engine a low hum in the dark.Jozef is working the electronic lock on the door. He’s the fastest in the business, but bypassing a biometric scanner without setting off the alarm can’t be rushed.As soon as he’s accomplished that, he takes out his set of picks to find the right one for the manual deadbolt.But Kir isn’t waiting.He steps past Jozef and kicks the door right next to the lock

OliverI spend most of the night staring up at the ceiling of the guest bedroom, my mind running at a million miles an hour. My body is still thrumming with residual adrenaline. Every time I close my eyes, I feel the phantom weight of Kirill pressing me against the wall. I feel the suffocating heat of his skin, the bruising grip of his hand on my throat, and the intoxicating press of his cock.The realization that he wants me is a live current humming through my veins. It changes the entire landscape of my captivity.Up until last night, I thought I was dealing with an unfeeling machine. A heavily armed robot who viewed me as nothing more than a noisy, irritating paycheck. But machines don't lose their breath when you press against them. Machines don't run away because they’re terrified of what they want to do to you.Kirill Nikolaev is a fortress, but every fortress has a backdoor. You just have to know how to code the right exploit to pry it open.My previous strategies didn’t

KirillThe cold, damp air of the street does absolutely nothing to cool the boiling heat in my blood. I walk fast, my boots hitting the pavement with enough force to send a jolt up my shins. My jaw is locked so tight the joints ache, a dull throb radiating up into my temples.I can still hear the sound Oliver made. That soft, breathy groan when Dominique slid her hands into his hair. I can still see the exact angle he tilted his head back, baring his pale throat to her, leaning into her touch the way parched earth drinks the first rain. It makes me want to tear something apart with my bare hands.It is completely unprofessional, I tell myself as I stalk down the sidewalk, ignoring the startled looks of the pedestrians who scramble out of my path. That is the only reason I am angry. Dominique is part of the squad. She is a highly trained operative, pulled off a critical surveillance detail to amuse Oliver. It compromises the dynamic of the team. It blurs the lines.He is a mass

OliverThe haze of arousal is thick and suffocating, drowning out every rational thought in my head.Heat pools heavy and demanding in my stomach. It’s a desperate, throbbing ache that the silicone toy is barely managing to scratch. Every stroke of my hand, every slow roll of my hips, is fueled entirely by a fantasy built around the massive, angry Russian sleeping down the hall.The soft whine of the door hinges cuts through the quiet rasp of my own breathing.Eyes snapping open, the breath completely leaves my lungs.Standing in the doorway, framed by the dark shadows of the corridor, is the subject of my filthy imagination.A hallucination. That’s the only logical explanation. My fevered brain has finally snapped under the pressure of the last three days, conjuring a mirage to satisfy the agonizing craving in my blood.He doesn't look like a mirage.Kirill is standing there bare-chested, the golden light from the bedside lamp casting deep, intricate shadows across the heavy muscl

OliverSeventy-two hours have passed since the truce was established in the kitchen.Three full days of walking a razor-thin wire suspended over a pit of hissing vipers.The penthouse feels smaller with every hour that ticks by. The air is constantly thick, heavy with unspoken words and ignored desires.My body is in a state of perpetual, agonizing rebellion.Being this horny should probably be considered a medical emergency. Every time Kirill walks past me, the subtle shift in the air current brings his scent straight to my senses. It sends a sharp, demanding ache directly to my groin.Memories of his mouth on mine, the desperate friction of his beard against my neck, and the earth-shattering intensity of his release play on a relentless loop in my brain.The agreement was clear. I promised not to push. I promised not to beg or initiate physical contact.But I never said anything about nudging gently.Sitting back and doing nothing simply isn't in my nature. If Kir wants to play a