Page 65 of Breaker

I’ve spent the last three days being thrown around by him, his large hands on me, touching my body in ways that are instructive, helpful, but leave my skin flaming and my blood singing. Every time he tries to correct my stance with a large hand on my thigh, my belly dips, and our eyes lock. When he repositions my arms, all I can picture is me bent over his bed, him taking me from behind.

Like I begged him to do days ago, and he refused.

It took a good two days before the sting of rejection and humiliation left. It’s helped that he’s not brought it up, and it’s definitely helped they’ve kept everything so structured that every minute of the day is full of training, running, eating, grappling, and knife fighting that I don’t have time to think about the fact they aren’t touching me.

Or talking to me much at all.

And I didn’t realize until this moment how much it grates on me.

I didn’t realize until just now, standing in the middle of this empty room with rough wooden floors, how much I want another night with them. How much I crave their attention as much as their touch. They made me promises, claimed me, told me I was theirs to use as they pleased, yet none of them have come near me. Not even Striker, which hurts.

Ithurtsand I don’t know what to think of it all. I’m so confused. Naming this ache in my chest as want feels like a betrayal to Cora. I shouldn’t want anything other than her back. In my bed. In my arms.

“Sweetheart,” Viper says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Eyes up here.”

I drag my gaze up from his crotch and focus on his masked face. Next to me, I feel Striker step back and I cast a glance his way. When I see his gold eyes slipping over Viper’s tight shirt appreciatively, a scream threatens to break free.

Ifhecan’t even keep himself in check, how am I supposed to? There’s so much sexual tension in the room, it’s difficult to think, much less breathe.

I spent almost two weeks with Cora in my bed, giving or receiving an orgasm multiple times a day. Then we had an amazing night with the men, and now my body roars with want. And none of them are touching what they’ve claimed. I’ve resorted to reaching between my thighs after every sessionwith Viper and Striker, seeking relief, my pussy greedy for some sort of stimulation to ease this constant craving. I hide in the bathroom for privacy since I don’t know if they’re watching the cameras, and use my fingers to pull a quick, rough orgasm out of me, leaving me feeling somehow overly sexed yet under-stimulated.

I’m so fucking frustrated.

“Ready?”

I blow out a breath, swiping my pony tail over my shoulder as I adjust my stance and my hold on the training knife, feeling the weight of it in my hand.

“Now.”

I dart forward. Viper steps to the side. Instead of wrapping my arm around his chest to trap his bicep that’s entirely too strong and large for me to pin down, I dip low, sliding under his outstretched arm, moving around to his back. I kick the back of his leg, the tip of my boot hitting the back of his knee. Viper grunts, leg giving just as I arch my arm and stab downward. The rubbery blade connects where his shoulder meets his thick neck.

“Aw shit,” he grates, but he grips my wrist, forcing me to drop the knife as he pulls me forward until my chest hits his back. He bends, dragging my body upward. My scream of anger gets cut off as he pulls me, head first, and I tumble over his shoulder, landing hard on my back.

Air bursts from my lungs. My eyes widen in shock, my lungs fighting, screaming as the wind’s knocked at out of me.

“I said neck,” he says, looming over me as I try to suck in air. “Not my collarbone.”

Panic takes hold as my lungs fight.

“Give it a second,mo leannan,“ he says, softly. “If you try to force the air into your lungs, they’ll fight you. Relax.”

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Fuckeverything.

I’m tired. I suck at everything but throwing a knife, which does me no good, according to them, if someone is close enough to grab me.

I gasp as air finally floods my chest and I bolt up, hot, angry tears flooding my eyes.

“Hold on,” he growls, gripping my arms to spin me to face him. “Why the tears?”

“What is the point of this?” I scream, flinging my arms out and kicking the rubber knife with my boot. It’s childish but I’m so fed up, I don’t care.

“So you can defend yourself,” Viper snaps, just as Striker says, “So we know you’ll be safe.”

“I’m a fucking accountant,” I scream. “And an accountant with a knife is useless against a gun.”

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