Page 22 of Dirty Hit
“That’s it,” I breathe against his hairline. I keep my mouth off his lips—kissing is a mercy he hasn’t earned—but I give him my breath, my words, and the filth he’s begging for. “Feel how fucking hard you are for me, dirty boy?”
Power has a taste, and right now it sits sweet on my tongue.
His pupils are blown wide, the dark swallowing the green, and sweat beads at his hairline. He grinds harder, chasing the pressure. Every inch he takes is a confession written in motion: hips snapping forward, breath stuttering, thighs trembling.
“Please,” he breathes, voice cracked, head tipping back until it rests against the doorframe.
“Begging already? I thought I was the pathetic one, Little Sin?” I dig my thigh upward, a cruel nudge that knocks a choked sob out of him.
His hips jerk faster, frantic now, breath hitching on every upward drag. I loosen my grip on his wrists just enough that he could break free if he really wanted. He doesn’t. He keeps them pinned, offering me the illusion of prayer while he fucks himself toward oblivion.
“Good fucking boy,” I hiss. “Make that cock suffer for every stroke.”
He shudders once, then breaks with a strangled cry, hips slamming forward as an orgasm rips through him, heat flooding between us. I feel the wet pulse against my thigh, feel the tremorroll up his spine. He tries to muffle the sound, bites his lip until it pales, but the whine that slips out is pure surrender.
I hold him there, pinned and trembling, until the aftershocks taper into shivers. His forehead rests against my chest, breath hitching, body slack except for the twitch of overstimulated nerves.
“Look at the mess you made,” I murmur, releasing his wrists. I ease back just enough to see the dark stain spreading; proof of his humiliation. He can’t meet my eyes, so I cup his jaw and tilt his face up anyway.
“You did well,” I say, letting a hint of approval bleed through.
The red on his cheeks is stark against the already tear-slick flush, but he doesn’t deny it. He can’t. The evidence is cooling against his skin, seeping through the cotton to cling damply to his thigh. “You’re a bastard.”
“And you’re still hard, Little Sin. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late.” I pull him from the door and pause, looking over my shoulder at the picture he makes: hair mussed, cross askew, cheeks flaming. Finally alive—painfully, beautifully alive. “Take this time to thank God I was in a generous mood.”
Then I’m gone, leaving him trembling, sticky, and beautifully broken behind me.
Fuck, this is going to be fun.
Brendon
I’vealreadyreplayedwhathappened in my office yesterday enough times that the edges of it are starting to blur.
Except the edges don’t really blur; they sit behind my eyes every time I blink. Every other thought I try to have gets dragged back to the same place:
My knees were on that thin faculty carpet. My hands laced behind my back because he told me to. The countdown, the way my stomach dropped when he hit “three” and I was still vertical. And then that split second where I chose to sink instead of shove past him and run.
My brain keeps trying to file it under coercion, fear, or blackmail because that’s where it should go. That’s where it would go if this were anyone else. But there’s this traitorous part of me that knows that isn’t the whole story, and that part is loud enough that I want to rip it out.
My body moved before my brain could argue, wrists crossing and fingers locking together, and the position made everythingfeel smaller and clearer at the same time. I wasn’t choosing anything anymore. I was just following.
That should’ve terrified me, and it did, but right under the fear there was this strange calm I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever, and that calm is what haunts me more than his hand on my throat.
What makes it worse is that he didn’t even have to do much. He didn’t hurt me, even though he could have. He found the exact amount of pressure that stole my breath without stealing my air. My vision went white at the edges and my knees almost gave out, not from lack of oxygen, but from the way it made everything inside me go quiet.
I know where the line would be in every sermon I’ve ever heard. There’s a clear list for sin; there are verses you could throw at each one.
What there isn’t a verse for is the way my brain went blessedly blank while I fucked myself on his thigh. The way his mouth against my ear filled the space where guilt usually screams.
Teaching after that was a nightmare I somehow walked through without falling over. No one noticed. No one looked at me and saw any difference, and that might be almost as bad as everything else because it proves how easy it is to live with this kind of double life.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I park where I did last time, hands locked on the steering wheel for a second as the engine clicks off and everything goes quiet. The sky is washed in pink and purple and that deepening blue that means night is coming fast, and the windows of his cottage are warm rectangles of light against the darker outline of the roof.
It looks almost cozy if you don’t know what he does here.
I check the time: six fifty-eight. Of course I’m on time. I’m always on time, especially when I’m filled with dread. He told me not to make him wait, and my body heard that as gospel. I grab my bag, lock the car, and walk up the path, counting my steps because counting is easier than thinking.
