Page 58 of Dirty Hit
ThebrutalityisthatI know exactly what happens to boys like him when they come back to themselves with nothing underneath. I’ve already seen how good he is at slicing himself open with shame.
If I let him walk out of this room with nothing but the memory of what he just did with his mouth, he’ll go home and rip himself apart with it. He’ll lie there in the dark, replaying every second and telling himself he’s filth, a disappointment, and an abomination. It’ll land ten times heavier because I didn’t bother to catch him on the way down.
I won’t do that again.
I cup his jaw, thumb stroking along the curve of his lower lip, gentle where I was rough before. His eyes refocus on me, a little startled.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “You with me?”
He swallows, throat protesting after what I just put him through, and nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m… here.”
“Color?” I ask again, because I meant that question earlier, and I mean it now.
His mouth quirks, but the bravado’s thinner this time. “Still green,” he says, voice quiet and trashed. Then he laughs; a tiny, breathy sound that’s almost a hiccup. “You’re… such a nerd.”
I raise a brow. “You’re calling me a nerd after I just fucked your mouth?”
He nods and lets out a dreamy hum. “Your system. Color codes. That’s… nerdy.”
I can’t help but grin. “Brat,” I murmur, then lean in and softly press my mouth to his, sealing something rather than tearing more open.
It’s a lazy kiss, a grounding one, tongue barely there—just lips and breath and the reminder that I’m not done with him now that I’ve gotten mine.
He sighs against my mouth, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders like someone cut a wire, and I can feel the exact moment his head stops spinning quite so fast.
I pull back slowly, letting my forehead rest against his for a beat.
“You did good,” I say again. “You hear me?”
His eyes flutter, confusion flickering there. “I… yeah,” he says, but it sounds automatically polite, not convinced.
Not good enough.
I let my hand drop from his jaw to his hip, fingers squeezing once, and then I step back. My brain’s still buzzing, my muscles loose and heavy, but the restless edge that drove me out into the city earlier is gone.
I’m not vibrating with the need to hurt someone anymore. I’m just exhausted and wired and very aware of the boy in front of me who’s starting to shiver now that the adrenaline’s leaking out of his system.
“Come on,” I say, sliding my arm around his waist. “Kitchen.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Kitchen,” I repeat. “You’re not walking out of here on jelly legs and an empty stomach. I’m not having you pass out at the wheel so I have to explain to Keller why my GPA miracle-worker died in a ditch.”
He makes a noise that might be a laugh or a protest, but he doesn’t fight me when I turn us toward the kitchen. His body follows mine without hesitation, and I know I’ve rewired his instincts already.
I slip my hand around his waist when his legs look like they wanna give out.
“Jesus,” he mutters, grabbing at my shoulders. “I can walk.”
“Sure,” I say. “You’re doing a great job so far.”
Then, instead of waiting, I just pick him up. It’s not hard, since he’s all narrow hips and wiry muscle; he’s light compared to the guys I plow through on the field.
I hook one arm under his thighs, the other around his back, and lift. His arms snap around my neck automatically, clinging to me. He tucks his face into my shoulder, nose pressed to my throat, breath hot against my skin. Then I feel his embarrassment spike, his body going stiff.
“Don’t you dare comment,” he mutters.
“On what?” I ask. “The way you fit in my arms? The way you went boneless the second I picked you up? The way you’re about two seconds from purring because you’re smelling me again?”
