Page 103 of Dirty Hit
“There’s that little storm cloud.”
I scowl at the ceiling, because looking at him feels dangerous. “What storm cloud?”
“The one that just rolled in when I mentioned being prepared,” he says. “You got that kicked-puppy look for a second. Talk to me, Little Sin.”
“I donothave a kicked-puppy look,” I mutter, which is a lie we both know it. I pick at a loose thread on the comforter, cheeks heating. “I’m just… surprised you have a whole ‘post-destroying-your-TA kit’ ready to go, that’s all.”
His brows lift. “Post-destroying-your-TA kit,” he repeats with a chuckle. “You jealous of the fictional boys who got wrecked before you?”
“Wow,” I draw out the word, as dry as I can manage while still lying half on his chest. “Straight for the jugular.”
“You’re not straight for anything,” he snorts, then sobers. “Seriously, though. Say it. Get it out of your head before it throws a party in there.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, fighting it, then sigh, because he’s right.
“You’re just… really good at this,” I admit, forcing the words out. “All of this: the sex, the talking, the aftercare, the knowing I’d freak out in the morning and preemptively buying ass ointment. You just casually dropped ‘Epsom salts and muscle soak’ like this is routine, and my brain immediately decides I’m… I don’t know, victim number forty-eight on the Dominic Volkov Ruination Tour.”
His mouth curves even before I finish. “Brendon Lane, jealous of ghosts,” he says. “That’s new.”
“I’m not jealous,” I say automatically, which is so obviously bullshit I can feel my ears burn. “I just… don’t like thinkingabout you doing all of this with someone else; or you knowing exactly what to do because you learned on other people, and now I’m just… benefiting from your experience like some kind of group project.”
He stares at me, then lets out a laugh that’s half amused, half affectionate, and annoyingly gentle. “You really want to know why I’m ‘weirdly prepared’?” he asks.
“No,” I say, then immediately contradict myself. “Yes. Maybe. Shut up and tell me.”
He moves, sliding his hand from my hip up to my ribs, his thumb rubbing a slow line back and forth.
“First,” he says, “I’m not new to sex, you know this, but I haven’t done what I do with you with anyone else. Not the way we did last night. Not that deep or that intense. Not that… us. I’ve fucked people, I’ve played a little rough, but I don’t take many people apart, and I sure as fuck haven’t spent half the night holding anyone through subdrop before you.”
I blink, thrown by his words. “You… haven’t?”
“Newsflash,” he says. “Most of my hookups were quick, dirty, and not particularly emotionally intelligent—bar bathroom, party bedroom, someone else’s couch while their roommates were out. No brat training, no pinky promises, no baths in the morning. I got off, they got off, everyone went home. You’re not standing in a long line of aftercare recipients, Little Sin. You’re the first.”
The ridiculous warm thing in my chest expands, and my throat tightens—which is unfair because I was prepared to be smugly righteous in my jealousy, and now I just feel stupid and seen.
“Then how do you know what to do?” I ask quietly. “The drop thing, the pills, the bath… You said ‘subdrop’ like it’s not your first time saying it.”
His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Because I’m not a complete animal. I knew exactly what I was planning to do withyou after the first time you got on your knees and looked at me like that. I also knew if I didn’t handle it right, you’d implode. So I did what people do when they care about getting something important: I fucking researched.”
I choke. “You… researched.”
“Yeah,” he says, completely unbothered. “I read shit; articles, forums, whatever I could get my hands on. I listened to podcasts while I was lifting.‘How not to break your sub’is surprisingly popular content on the internet. I picked what made sense for you, and adapted it to my brain and your neuroses. The ointment’s from a completely different grab bag of experience, but the rest is all for you, Little Sin.”
My face is probably doing something humiliating, because he watches it like he finds the whole process fascinating. “You… you Googled‘how not to break your sub’,” I repeat weakly.
“Among other things,” he says. “You’re not a casual kink for me, Brendon. You’re not a side quest. You crawled under my skin the second you knelt for me and licked my fucking boot. I knew if I was going to keep pulling you down with me, I needed to make sure you didn’t drown. I like breaking rules; I don’t like breaking you wrong.”
The jealousy fizzles out so fast it leaves me dizzy, replaced by awe and a kind of aching gratitude I have, no idea where to put.
I stare at him, at this six-four Russian nightmare who murders people and then goes home and listens to BDSM aftercare podcasts so he doesn’t mess me up more than necessary.
“That’s the most fucked up romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I say, voice thin.
His grin turns slow and pleased. “Good. Now, when the tub’s ready, I’ll come back and we’ll get you to the bathroom. You lean on me, you don’t rush, and you let me do most of the work. Once you’re soaking, we can talk about the ointment situation without you wanting to die as much.”
“You’re very bossy for someone who did this to me,” I say, but my voice is softer now, the brat in me mostly pouting instead of genuinely fighting.
He smirks. “You love when I’m bossy,” he says. “And yeah, I did this to you, but I’m also the one making sure you don’t fall on your ass on the way to the toilet, so count your blessings.” He drops a quick kiss on my mouth, careful and brief, and then slides off the bed again. “Stay.”
