Page 139 of Dirty Hit
“Then what was all this?” he demands, eyes searching my face. “Some fucked-up cardio session?”
“It was you,” I say simply. “You get off on fear, remember: on being hunted, on not knowing what I’ll do. I gave you that without anyone else around to see. I wanted you to feel the chase with nothing at the end of it except me.”
He swallows, throat bobbing. “You pulled a knife on me,” he says, but his voice has gone low now, hoarse.
I look down at him—at the dirt smeared on his cheek, the leaves caught in his hair, the way his hoodie has ridden up to expose a strip of skin above his jeans—and my hand itches to touch.
“The knife’s in the ground,” I say quietly. “You’re under me. We’re alone. You know exactly who’s in control here.”
His breath hitches. “You,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me. Who do you belong to, Little Sin?”
His eyes flutter, lashes dark against his skin. “You,” he whispers again.
The word hits me like a drug.
My hand moves almost on its own, leaving the ground and sliding to his throat. My fingers curl around the column of it, warm and slick with sweat, pulse thundering under my thumb. I don’t squeeze; not yet. I just hold, feeling the tremor that runs through him at the contact.
He freezes, then an exhale shudders out of him, lips parting. His eyes go heavy—that dazed, wrecked look I’ve come to crave.
“There’s my brave little coward,” I say softly, leaning in so my mouth is a hair’s breadth from his.
“Fuck you,” he breathes, but it has no bite left in it. It sounds like‘Please, Daddy’.
My thumb strokes up, pressing just a fraction, just enough that I feel his swallow hitch.
“Breathe for me. I’ve got you.”
His pulse thumps steadily beneath my palm, strong and fast, and the little stutter every time I tighten my grip shoots straightthrough me. I watch his lips part wider, his tongue slicking across the bottom one as air gets harder to pull in. I don’t crush; I coast right on the edge, holding him where every breath is earned, not given.
“Dom…” he whispers, voice ragged around the pressure.
I bend, teeth grazing the corner of his mouth, tasting sweat and the woods on his skin. “Color?”
“Green,” he croaks, the word vibrating against my fingertips. His hips jerk up, half-desperate now, seeking friction he’s too wrecked to chase.
I loosen my hand, just a fraction, and let oxygen burn back through him. He drags it in with a hiss, eyes fluttering open, pupils blown. The moment it steadies, I tighten again, teaching his body the rhythm I want—give, take, give, take.
I ease off the pressure again, letting him breathe and he gasps, arching his body, giving me everything. I savor it, then tighten once more, cut the airflow, hold him right at the brink where sound drops to a husky whine.
His eyes roll, hips bucking greedily, and sweat beading at his hairline. I count, then release. Air rushes back, and with it a moan so guttural, my cock fucking jumps.
His throat flexes once beneath my palm, a soft, involuntary flutter that punches heat straight down my spine. I watch his pupils dilate to the edge, the fragile rims of green almost swallowed by black, and I ease the pressure a millimeter just to feel the way his next breath shudders back in—ragged, grateful, worshiping the air I allow.
I pop the button of his jeans and drag the zipper down. The sound is tiny in the hush of the trees, but it hits him like a thunderclap; his hips jerk, a helpless stutter that makes his hard cock strain against the denim.
“Dominic—” he whispers, the name breaking on a gasped inhale when I tighten again, cutting the word off halfway up histhroat. I hold him right there, my thumb pressed over his pulse, counting beats as they climb, then I loosen just enough that he can sip another breath.
His lips part, damp and pink, eyes glassy as though he’s floating somewhere a step outside his body. I want him exactly there: aware, trembling, pinned between panic and pleasure with no idea which way he’ll fall until I decide.
“Use your words,” I murmur, bending so my mouth grazes the corner of his. “Tell me what you need.”
He tries; the first attempt is only a rasp, no consonants, just want. I give him a fraction more air. “Need—” He swallows against my grip, the motion flexing under my palm. “Need you.”
“You have me.” I slide my hand at his waistband lower, pushing past cotton to wrap around his cock. He’s harder now, hot and slick in my fist. “Anything else?”
“Make me take it,” he breathes, lashes fluttering again. “Please.”
