Page 30 of Dirty Hit
I freeze instead, breath coming fast, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to jump into his palm. His weight is solid over my hips—not painful, just there—heavy and anchored, and his face hovers above mine, close enough that I can see the individual streaks of blue and gray in his eyes.
“This is what I mean,” he says quietly. “You say one thing, but your body—”
“I’ll call the police,” I say, even though my phone is on the nightstand and his weight has me effectively pinned.
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “No, you won’t.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I insist.
“I do, actually,” he says, and there’s a new edge in his voice now. Darker. Less playful. “If you were going to call them, you would’ve done it yesterday. Or the day before. Or anytime between watching me kill a guy and letting me put my hand on your throat while you made the prettiest little noise I’ve ever heard.”
Heat burns up my face, humiliation and anger tangling in my chest. “That wasn’t—”
“It was exactly what it was,” he cuts in. “And you fucking know it.”
My face burns so hot I feel sick. “Stop talking about that.”
“I’m not shaming you. I’m telling you the truth. You liked it, and you likethis. Me over you, holding you down. You can call it fear all you want, but I’m not blind, Brendon.”
I squeeze my eyes shut because if I keep looking at him, I’m going to give away even more. “You’re sick.”
“Probably,” he says lightly. “You’re still the one lying here underneath me instead of shoving me off the bed.”
A part of me is humming with relief at being pinned, at not having to stand on my own two feet for once, at feeling someone else’s weight making the decisions.
My whole life has been about control. About forcing myself into a mold. Now there’s this terrible, traitorous part of me that wants to hand all of that to the worst possible person and say,“Here, you deal with it.”
Dominic dips his head a little closer. “Here’s what’s going to happen from now on. You listening?”
“I don’t—”
His hand tightens around my wrist hard enough to remind me who’s in charge of this conversation. “You listening?” he repeats.
My throat bobbles on a swallow. “Yes.”
“Good boy,” he says. “Rule number one: you answer me every time. If I call, you pick up. If I text, you respond. Maybe not in the same minute, I’m not a complete dictator, but I don’t get left on read, and you don’t disappear.”
“I’m not your property,” I say, because I feel obligated to say it.
He hums thoughtfully. “Not yet.”
“Dominic—”
“Rule two,” he cuts in, ignoring my protests. “You don’t cancel on me. If you need to reschedule a session, ask. You don’t make that decision alone and then hide under your covers. You’re supposed to be helping me pass; you don’t get to fuck up my timeline because you’re having a crisis about your dick.”
Shame explodes in my chest. “That’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” he interjects. “You’re spinning out because you liked what you thought you shouldn’t. Welcome to adulthood. You don’t get to drag me down with you because your father gave shitty sermons.”
I flinch at the mention of my father. He watches that reaction, then his voice softens by a fraction.
“You take on everyone else’s shit. Professors, students, and family. You do everything they want, and then you act shocked when someone demands you take something for yourself.”
“That’s not what this is,” I whisper. “This is you… pushing. Taking.For fun.”
“Yeah,” he says, unapologetically, “and you respond to it. So here we are.”
I swallow hard against his hand. “What happens if I don’t follow your rules?” I manage.
