Page 62 of Dirty Hit
“I said not negotiable,” I cut in. “You’re wrung out and floaty. You go home, and you text me‘inside’. You’re going to feel weird tomorrow—maybe still a little wrung out, maybe a little low. That’s still a drop; It lingers sometimes. If you start spiraling, you text me again. Got it?”
“Got it,” he says quietly.
“Good,” I say, as I reach up and brush my thumb along his jaw, feeling the faint roughness of stubble, the heat still in his skin. “One more thing: you don’t offer yourself up like this again.”
Confusion flickers. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you don’t drive out here at night because you’re scared I’m going to kill someone, and decide the best way to handle that is to kneel and tell me to use you instead,” I say. “You’re not my emotional punching bag or a martyr. You don’t manage my violence for me by throwing your body in front of it. That shit stops tonight.”
His shoulders tense. “But I—”
“I know what you were trying to do,” I say. “You wanted to divert me, and I’m telling you now: no. I’m not indulging it. When I decide to put you on your knees, or against a wall, or wherever the fuck else I want you, it’s because Iwantyou there, not because I’m trying to avoid killing someone else. You’re not a fucking substitute victim, Brendon. You’re mine.”
His eyes darken, breath catching. “I thought you’d… like it,” he says, voice small. “Me offering myself.”
“Your offering sounds noble in your head,” I go on. “In practice, it’s reckless and self-harming as fuck. You came heretonight ready to be hurt. That’s not the energy I take you with. You understand the difference?”
He swallows. “I… think so.”
“Let me make it clear,” I say. “You want to be used by me? Fine. You made that pretty obvious. You want to take what I give you? Good. I want you to. But those scenes, those choices, happen on my terms and your consent—not your desperation—and not when my head’s in a place where I can’t take care of you after.”
He absorbs that quietly, the lines around his mouth easing a little as the framework settles. It’s easier to be calm when someone tells you the rules; I know that from both sides.
“So…” he says slowly. “If I… want… something, I…”
“You tell me,” I say. “You don’t show up like a martyr and ask me to use you as a punching bag. You say, ‘I want to kneel, Daddy.’ ‘I want to be your good boy tonight, Daddy.’” His cheeks flare, but I keep going. “And then, I decide if I’m in a place to give it to you safely. If I’m not, I’ll tell you no. If I am, we’ll discuss it, and there will be a safe word. That’s how this stays ours, and not some fucked-up, self-sacrifice ritual.”
He nods, more firmly this time. “Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”
“Good,” I say, and I reach up and cup the back of his neck again, thumb stroking the soft hair at his nape. “Because if you pull that shit again, I’m going to be pissed. And not the fun kind.”
He huffs out a tiny laugh. “What’s the fun kind?”
“The kind that ends with you over my knee.”
His face goes scarlet. “You’re not serious,” he mutters.
“Wanna test that?”
“No,” he says quickly, then pauses. “Maybe. I don’t know. Shut up.”
I grin, satisfied. “You’re not here to fix me. You’re here because you’re the only thing I like fucking with more than game stats and corpses.”
He makes a face. “That’s… such a romantic ranking.”
“Settle for honest,” I say. “You did well tonight. I’m proud of you. I’m not angry anymore, and I don’t regret it. The only thing I’d change is how we got here.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize the words—store them somewhere he can use later when his brain starts lying. “Thank you… for not just… sending me home like last time.”
Annoying as fuck guilt creeps up my spine. “You’re wearing my cuff now, and you just let me fuck with your head and your mouth. You really think I’m gonna leave you sitting on my counter shaking without at least feeding you first?”
Brendon rolls his eyes, and that fondness squeezes my chest again. “You make it sound so wholesome.”
“Yeah, well,” I say. “Even monsters know basic aftercare, Little Sin.”
He shakes his head, but smiles at me. Even though the anxiety is still there, it’s quieter—wrapped in the warmth of pasta, and water, and my hands, and my voice. I stay between his knees, close enough that he can feel me, far enough that he knows I’m not about to demand anything else from him tonight.
After a minute, he looks up at me again, more present than he was earlier. “Dom?”
