Page 101 of Dirty Hit
“It’s not going to settle,” I say, blinking fast to keep the tears from spilling. “I have to pee, but I can’t even sit up without feeling like I got hit by a truck; while you’re over there sounding like you just won the damn Super Bowl.”
He strokes his hand up my stomach, palm spread wide and warm, soothing in a way that makes my throat tighten more, not less. “Ididwarn you that you were going to feel me for days.”
I turn my head, shame burning a hole through my face. His hair’s a mess this morning, eyes still heavy with sleep and lashes clumped together, jaw shadowed with stubble. He looks stupidly good for someone who spent half the night wrecking me. I feel ridiculous in comparison: eyes watering, nose stinging, and my body one big complaint.
“That’s not funny,” I snap, except it comes out wet because now my stupid body has decided tears are happening. My eyesfinally overflow, and a hot trail slips down my cheek—which is mortifying on top of everything else.
His mouth twitches; I see it. The bastard tries to swallow the smile, but it still tugs at the corner of his lips before he schools it into fake sympathy.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” I say, voice wobbling.
“I’m not laughing, baby. First time’s always rough, especially with… everything we did.” His gaze flickers down my body and back up. “And with me.”
“With you and your six bars of hell,” I bite out, because if I don’t brat I’m going to start sobbing. “Who the fuck needs that much metal in their dick, Dominic? What are you, a walking hardware store? You should come with a warning label.”
This time, he doesn’t even try not to smile: it breaks over his face before he reins it in with a wince, like he knows full well it’s the wrong reaction.
“You’re okay,” he says, relief bleeding through the amusement. “If you’re bitching at me, you’re okay. I’ve got you. Breathe. You’re not broken, you’re just sore as fuck. I’ll fix what I can, yeah?”
“Can you un-fuck my ass?” I demand through my embarrassment. “Because that’s the part complaining.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “No refunds, but I can make things easier. Stay here. Don’t move unless you absolutely have to. I mean it, Brendon. You try to get out of this bed on your own, and I’ll tie you to it.”
A shiver runs through me at the thought, which is extremely unhelpful given the context. “That’s not a deterrent, and you know it,” I mutter.
“Exactly my point,” he says dryly. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to my forehead, then swings his legs out of bed.
I try very hard not to stare when he stands up, but it’s impossible. His back flexes as he stretches, long lines of muscleunder skin, tattoos shifting with the movement—all black ink and scars.
He pads to the bathroom, naked and unconcerned, comfortable in his skin in a way I can’t even imagine. I glare at him halfheartedly, then yelp again when a tiny shift in my hips makes everything clench in protest.
“Brendon,” he calls from the bathroom. “Color?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, then raise my voice. “I’m fine.”
“Fine as in green, or fine as in you’re going to faceplant on your way to the toilet?” he asks. I can hear cabinets opening, bottles clinking. “Don’t lie to me, Little Sin.”
“Yellow?” I say reluctantly. “Everything hurts and I want to die, but I’m not actually dying.”
“That’s amber, not red,” he says. “You’re so fucking dramatic. It’s normal to be sore after the first time—especially when you spent half the night telling me not to be gentle.”
“You didn’t have to listen,” I shoot back, then bite down on a whimper when I accidentally shift my weight wrong again.
Left alone, I stare up at the ceiling and focus on breathing. It hurts, yeah, but not like something’s wrong. It’s that deep, raw sting, layered over muscle ache; the kind that says my body got pushed somewhere brand-new and is now filing 12 complaint forms about it.
Underneath the discomfort, though, is this strange warmth. He never forced. He never ignored a flinch. He did exactly what he said he would do and gave me every exit—and I still chose to stay, to take all of that on purpose.
Dom comes back in carrying a glass of water, a couple of pills, and a small tube. He sets the water and pills on the nightstand, then sits down on the edge of the bed, looking at me with too much amusement in his eyes and too much tenderness in everything else.
“Okay,” he says. “Step one. Painkillers. Can you sit up a little if I help you, or is that a hard no?”
“I can try,” I say, because I havesomepride left, even if it’s hanging by a thread.
He slides an arm behind my shoulders and one under my knees, moving me with the same care he used last night when he flipped me onto my back, and I hiss as the movement pulls at sore muscles. He murmurs words in Russian under his breath, the cadence low and soothing, and props me up against the headboard with pillows.
“Breathe,” he reminds me. “Go slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’re okay.”
“Screw breathing,” I mutter, but I do it, and some of the pain eases into a dull, manageable throb.
