Page 65 of Dirty Hit
My lungs forget how to work, and there it is—the flash of shame I’ve been bracing for. It rises, hot and prickly, and then collides with the image that’s been living rent-free behind my eyes since it happened—Dominic between my legs in the kitchen, pressing food into my mouth and telling me I’m not broken. That this is chemistry, not damnation.
The shame dissipates weirdly fast, as if his voice eats it before it can latch on. The only things left are embarrassment and a spark I’m starting to recognize as my brat waking up.
Me:You’re texting me a lot today, you know.
Dominic:Observation skills on point as usual.
Me:Seems like somebody’s needy. You feeling needy, Daddy?
There is a dangerous thrill in sending that and poking at him, in hearing my own heartbeat in my ears as I wait for the fallout.
Dominic:Keep talking like that, and I’ll remind you how fast I can shut that smart mouth up.
My skin prickles. I picture his hand at the back of my neck, the pressure, the way my jaw opened on command. My knees feel weirdly unsteady when another message pops up.
Dominic:Any drop?
I sag back against the bench, surprised all over again by the fact that he’s asking—it would be so easy for him not to. To reduce last night to be a thing that happened, and is now filed away under conquest. For me to be file number thirteen in a cabinet of bodies.
Instead, he’s checking. Following up. Doing exactly what he said he would do.
Me:Not really.
Me:Was waiting for it.
Me:Just feel… tired.
Me:And stupidly calm.
Dominic:That’s still the high. You might get hit later tonight. Or tomorrow.
Dominic:You remember what I said?
I do. Eat. Water. Text. Don’t believe the lies your brain tells you when you’re empty. I tap my cross once against my sternum, and ignore the tiny voice whispering that I should probably be talking to God instead of the campus serial killer.
Me:I remember.
Me:You’ll get your tech support call if I start having a religious breakdown.
Dominic:You already had a religious breakdown. You just aimed it at my zipper.
Me:You’re vile.
Dominic:Takes one to know one, Little Sin.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The next message sits on my tongue and in my fingers at the same time—too big and heavy and ridiculous to send, but also right there, demanding out.
I chew on my lower lip.
Me:Thank you, Daddy.
Me:For taking care of me last night and after.
The second I hit send, my soul leaves my body and my stomach drops straight through my asshole. I stare at the word on the screen. At the little blue bubble. At the fact that I just did that, on purpose, and in broad daylight.
Dominic:You’re welcome.
Dominic:You’re mine. Remember that.
