Page 140 of Dirty Hit
I squeeze—not his throat this time, but the thick base of his shaft, trapping blood until his breath hitches and his eyes roll just a little. The contrast of my loose hold on his windpipe and the punishing grip on his cock snaps something inside him; his hips lift, grinding into my fist, seeking friction that I don’t give yet.
“Greedy,” I murmur, brushing my nose along his cheek. “You ran so well, Brendon. You earned this. But you’ll take what I give.”
I ease my hand up his shaft slowly, torturing, then stop. His pulse kicks furiously beneath my thumb. I tighten on his throat until the next breath sticks. Seconds lengthen. His eyes search mine with trust or fear, I can’t tell, maybe both. The mixture I crave.
Right before his eyes roll back, I release him, air whooshing in; at the same instant, I stroke him with ruthless precision. Therush of oxygen collides with the burst of pleasure, and he arches beneath me, a strangled moan ripping out as his back bows off the dirt.
“That’s it,” I praise, hand sliding from his throat to his jaw, thumb smearing the moisture clinging to his bottom lip. “Breathe. Feel how alive you are.”
He’s stone-hard and leaking, the proof written in slick against my fingers, as I repeat the same movements: cutting off his air, then releasing it, just to stroke his cock.
His back bows; a strangled sound tears free. “Oh…God…”
“No gods out here,” I growl, pumping him harder, pace synced to the pulse fluttering under my thumb. “Just you and me.”
“You’re insane,” he whispers, but the words melt when I finally kiss him—full, deep, tongue claiming the taste of fear and want off his teeth. He whimpers into my mouth, hands sliding from my hoodie up into my hair.
I break the kiss enough to speak against his lips. “Want more?”
“Yes,” he breathes, that single syllable wrecked, honest.
I grin, shifting grip so that my thumb and middle finger frame his pulse, while the rest of my hand cups the back of his skull against the dirt. “On top,” I order, the words a low scrape against the dark. “I want to watch you ride out what you’re feeling.”
Confusion flickers in his eyes, then heat. He swallows hard, blinks once, twice, and I feel the quick thud of his pulse where my thumb still rests. “Dom—”
“No arguments, Little Sin. Strip, straddle me, and take what you begged for.” I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Earn the oxygen I just gifted you.”
He pushes at my shoulders, and I let him. Dirt grinds into my hoodie as I roll onto my back and pull my jeans down, cock hard as a fucking rock. Brendon sits up, removing his shirt and hoodie. He fumbles with his waistband, then drags his jeans andunderwear down his thighs, breath catching when the cold hits his skin.
I sit up forcing myself to stay still, letting him feel every second of my gaze raking over him. He clambers over my hips, thighs quivering as he settles, the length of him flushed and aching against his stomach.
“Eyes on me,” I remind him, and when he obeys, I see the wrecked trust and the feral need tangling behind his pupils.
I open him up until he’s shaking, edged so close that precum is steadily leaking before I pull my fingers out of his hole. I let the anticipation hang between us for a beat longer, watching the way his chest rises and falls—fast, unsteady, aching for relief he’s still too shy to name out loud.
Then I reach for the hunting knife, half-buried in the loam beside me, wrap my fingers around the worn leather grip, and bring it up between our bodies. I turn it so the edge faces harmlessly away from him, and the broad, blunt pommel sits heavy in my palm.
Brendon’s eyes lock on the weapon, pupils flaring wide. He’s trembling, but he doesn’t dart off my lap or ask me to stop, not even when I remove one of the packets of lube from my pocket and coat the hilt.
I drag the blunt edge of the knife down the line of his sternum, over his stomach, and his breath stutters.
“Ride my knife, Little Sin,” I murmur, guiding the handle forward.
A shiver rips through him. His hands brace on my shoulders, nails biting through cotton. “Dom… ”
“You’re safe,” I promise, even though safety is the last thing either of us is really chasing. My free hand settles at the small of his back, anchoring him. “You set the pace. You say stop, it stops. But if you keep going—” I tilt the hilt against him, just enoughpressure to make his breath stutter. “—you do it all the way. Understood?”
He answers by shifting his knees wider in the dirt, the moon washing him in silver, turning sweat to starlight. Then, with excruciating slowness, he lowers himself on the knife in my hand between my legs, letting the rounded pommel slide past the first tight resistance. His gasp tumbles out, half-pain, half-prayer, eyes fluttering shut.
I hiss through my teeth, every muscle in my body coiling. “Look at me.”
He forces his lashes up. The vulnerability there—terror and want braided tight—is enough to punch the breath from my lungs. I keep the knife steady, angle it so it fills him deeper by fractions; nothing rushed. Every tremor that racks his body ripples straight through me.
“That’s it,” I breathe, steading the knife. “Show me how hungry you are.”
He sinks farther, thighs quaking, soft sounds spilling from his lips each time the hilt stretches him wider. When he bottoms out, he’s shaking so badly I have to lock my arm around his waist to keep him upright. The sight of Brendon impaled on my weapon, moonlit and panting, burns itself into my memory.
I hold the knife firmly and let him use it, let him set the rhythm, slow, rocking thrusts that grow greedier as heat overrides fear. Every downward glide draws a new sound: a whimper, a gasp, my name bitten off like blasphemy.
