Page 128 of Dirty Hit
This time it’s me.
I can tell he’s surprised. Then he makes a low sound, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and kisses me back.
The taste of him hits me, familiar and grounding: mint and lingering spices from the stir-fry. I slide one hand up to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of his stubble, and he makes a sound in his chest I feel more than hear. His free hand finds the back of my neck, fingers curling there, and I melt into it like the weak thing I am for him. The world shrinks down to the wet slide of tongues, the scrape of teeth, and the way his breath stutters when I make a soft noise into his mouth.
I carefully brush my thumb along the line of stitches at his hairline, and he tilts his head into the touch like a cat—like he wants more contact, not less. My heart cracks a little at that.
I don’t want to be away from him; not after this week. Not after seeing him with someone else. Not after thinking I’d lost him for good. Every part of me that spent years being told to hold back is screaming at me to cling. So I do, and he lets me.
When we finally break for air, we’re both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, black ringed in blue.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You trying to kill me, Little Sin?”
His eyes roam my face when I don’t offer a retort, lingering over the redness in my eyes, the dried tear tracks on my cheeks. Guilt flickers across his features again. “What can I do to make it better—to make the pain go away? Tell me, and if it’s in my power, I’ll fucking do it.”
The question hits me deep.
He’s asked before, in smaller ways. ‘What do you need?’ ‘Tell me your color.’ ‘Use your words.’This feels bigger, though. He’s not asking how to get me off, or how to push me to that edge he loves. He’s me asking how to fix the damage he caused.
I look down, watching my fingers twist in the fabric of his hoodie. Part of me wants to say something stupid—hurt me more, fuck me until I forget, let’s pretend none of this matters if we just keep touching. That’s the easy route; the one we’ve taken before.
I told myself that when I came tonight, I needed answers, not just a distraction. That I needed something he couldn’t give me with his hands.
“I want you to apologize for hurting me.”
His shoulders tense under my hands and his eyes flick up to mine, widening a fraction, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like hethought I’d ask for a promise he can’t keep, or a confession he’s not ready to make.
“I already said I’m sorry—”
“I know,” I cut in. “You said it, and you meant it, but I… I need it to be more than words thrown over a body count. I need you to actually… feel it. To own it. Not just the intention behind it: the impact.”
He stares at me—gaze hard and scared and stubborn. Apologies aren’t a currency he grew up with, I know that. His world uses guilt, violence, and obligation as language, not regret.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, jaw working.
“Okay,” he finally says, slowly. “Okay. You want me to apologize. I’ll apologize.”
“I don’t mean grovel,” I say quickly, even though there’s a mean little part of me that would like to see him on his knees for once. “I just… I need to know you get what you did.”
His mouth twists. “You need to know thatI knowI broke you,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I say. “And that you’re not going to just… do it again, and expect me to bounce.”
He nods once, like a sentence has been passed. Then, without breaking eye contact, he moves under me.
I expect him to straighten up; to sit taller. To take a breath and launch into some Dom-brand speech laced with profanity and sincerity. Instead, he slides his hands down to my thighs, squeezes once, then gently moves me back enough that he can stand.
“Wait,” I say, confused, as he eases me off his lap and onto the couch beside him. “Dom, what are you…”
“Stay,” he says softly, the same word he used in the kitchen—but this time it lands differently. He steps back just out of reach, and for a few seconds, I panic that he’s going to walk away.
He doesn’t.
“Dom?” I ask, suddenly uneasy.
He doesn’t answer, but then he does something I genuinely never thought I’d see outside of a sexual setting.
He sinks down to his knees on the rug.
