Page 100 of Dirty Hit
The words land like a blade straight through the ribs, and he’s out before I can ask him if he meant it—heartbeat steady against my side, body limp and utterly sated. I lie there listening, one hand over his heart, and vow none of his demons will ever get past me again.
Brendon
I’mnotawakeenoughto panic yet. For a blissful few seconds, I just lie there and breathe, taking in the slow rise and fall of Dominic’s chest pressed against my back, the deep, even sound of his breathing at the back of my neck, the warmth cocooning me under his sheets.
Then my bladder makes its presence known, and the morning reality hits.
I slept with Dominic Volkov.
Not the hand stuff, not the kneeling in my office, not the endless teasing and stopping right at the edge he’s been doing for weeks. Real sex. Full on, no turning back—line destroyed and ground scorched. Everything my father said would send me straight to Hell before the trumpet even sounds.
I let a six-foot-four serial killer fuck me, and I called him Daddy while he did it.
Multiple times.
Loudly.
Heat rushes up my neck before I even open my eyes, and last night crashes back in flashes: Dominic’s mouth, his hands, the way he looked at me, the feel of him inside me for the first time. His voice in my ear, filthy and low, telling me to breathe, telling me to take it, telling me I’m doing so fucking good for him.
The stretch that hurt and then didn’t, since I’ve gotten used to his fist; the burn that turned into heat that turned into something that broke me down and rebuilt me at the same time. The way he held my thigh up with one hand, while the other laced our fingers together and pressed them into the mattress, and my body just… agreed.
I clamp down on the memory hard, because if I let it roll, I’m going to get hard again. And I genuinely don’t know if any part of my lower half can handle that right now. He’s heavy, and he feels… safe. Too safe. That stupid sleepy part of me that used to cling to a pillow as a kid wants to stay right here forever.
Unfortunately, my bladder disagrees, reminding me why I’m awake in the first place. Right. Bathroom. I need the bathroom. Through the curtains, I can see a slice of morning light—that grayish kind before the sun fully commits—which probably means it’s earlier than my body would’ve normally chosen to wake up.
My body also chose to get railed by someone built like a Greek tragedy last night, so we’re not trusting its judgment today.
His arm is pinning me, and his leg is dead weight over mine; there is no way I am waking a devil up to tell him I need to pee. My survival instincts aren’t completely dead.
Carefully, I slide my hand down to his forearm, fingers brushing over warm skin and ink. He makes a low noise in his sleep, and his grip tightens for a second; his body’s first response to movement is “no, stay.” I freeze, heart lurching, then exhale slowly as his hold eases again.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this. You just need to slide out. You’re an adult man. You can get to the bathroom without waking the Beast.”
The problem is moving involves my lower half, and it has some very strong opinions this morning. I shift my hips, trying to slide out from under his thigh, and the second I engage anything from the waist down, white-hot pain lances through me. It’s not a gentle burn—it’s a vicious, full-body jolt that rips a yelp out of my mouth before I can swallow it.
“Fuck—!”
The sound comes out high and raw, more startled than anything, but it might as well have been a gunshot for how fast he reacts. One second, Dominic is dead asleep behind me, and the next his arm clamps over my waist again and he’s dragging me back against his chest with a jolt that knocks the breath out of me.
“What?” he snaps, voice harsh with sleep, body already tense. His hand sweeps over my stomach, my ribs, checking for blood as if he expects to find a knife in me. “What happened? Who’s here?”
“There’s no one here, dumbass,” I manage, face burning. “Calm down, it’s just—ow, fuck.Dom… wait, wait, that hurts.” My voice cracks on the last word, and to my absolute horror, my eyes sting.
He goes still. “Hurts where?” he demands, immediately shifting from murder mode to assessment mode. His hand slides lower over my stomach, careful now, hovering and afraid to make it worse. “Brendon, talk to me.”
“Everything,” I mutter, then wince when I try to shift again and pain spears through me. “Okay, not everything. Just… Jesus, my ass feels like it lost a bar fight with a truck.”
There’s a beat of silence, then I feel his whole body go loose behind me, breath huffing out in a way that’s fifty percent possessiveness and one hundred percent relief.
“Oh,” he says, and there’s a grin in it I don’t have to see to hear. “Oh.”
“Don’t,” I warn, mortification climbing up my neck. “Don’t you dare sound pleased right now, Dominic Volkov. I swear to God.”
“I’m not pleased,” he lies immediately, but the bastard is clearly fighting a laugh. “I’m concerned. Very concerned. Devastated, even.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” I say through clenched teeth—because the pain is still there, which is exactly how I wanted this morning to go, obviously. My throat feels thick and my eyes blur, and that just pisses me off more. “You broke me. This is your fault. All of this is your stupid fault.”
“Hey,” he says, voice softening. His arm snakes more gently around me. “Breathe. Don’t try to move yet. Let it settle.”
