Page 142 of Dirty Hit
And the monster inside me purrs—sated, for now.
Brendon
I’msotiredmybones hurt. Not just the normal “I stayed up grading until stupid o’clock” tired, but that deep, wrung-out exhaustion that settles in my muscles, behind my eyes, and under my skin.
Every part of me aches in a way that has nothing to do with the shitty faculty chair I’m sitting on, and everything to do with the fact that last night, I was in the middle of a forest, half-wild with adrenaline, riding Dominic like I was trying to climb inside him.
I shift in my seat and instantly regret it; my thighs protest, my lower back throbs, and there’s a dull, insistent ache deep inside that makes my ears go hot.
My brain supplies helpful flashbacks: running from him, his hand around my throat, my voice cracking on ‘please, Daddy’, and then later, when he lay back in the dirt and dragged me on top of him, his mouth at my ear, telling me to take what I wanted.
I’m sore, exhausted, and so stupidly in love with him it’s sick.
Which is why I’m also pissed off.
“I’m an idiot,” I mutter to the empty room, even as my body gives a traitorous, low throb at the memory. “A sore, exhausted, pathetic idiot.”
I glare at the stack of essays in front of me like they personally wronged me. They blur around the edges; the words might as well be in Russian for all my brain is doing with them right now.
I press my fingers to my temples and breathe out slowly. I should go home, feed Jericho, shower properly instead of the half-assed rinse I did this morning, sleep for twelve hours. Then tomorrow, pretend that I’m just another TA—one who did not spend last night getting choked and fucked in the woods by the star quarterback.
I’m mad at him. I am.
I keep telling myself that, anyway. He pushed hard last night, harder than usual: the breath play, the chase, the knife, the way he made me bounce on his cock while he watched my face, cataloguing every reaction for later. I said yes. I asked for it. I begged for it, if we’re being honest. I can still hear myself in my head, and want to sink through the floor.
I should never be allowed to speak unsupervised again.
My lower back throbs in agreement with that thought. My throat feels rough, too. I press my fingers against it absently, feeling the faint soreness under the skin from where his hand tightened and released; careful even when he wasn’t being careful at all.
I finish the last essay at 3pm, scribble a note in the margin, and lean back, stretching until my spine cracks. I’m going to pack up, go home, and eat something that isn’t Dominic’s cum before I fall over.
I’ve just reached for my bag, when the door flies open.
I jump, heart hammering, immediately thinkingDominic,because of course I do. But it’s not Dominic filling the doorway. It’s my father.
For a split second, my brain can’t process it, since they live eight hours away; it’s like seeing a lion in the campus library. He’s still in his pastor uniform: crisp shirt, dark slacks, tie loosened, like he’s come straight from church or a meeting, phone clenched in his hand. His mouth is a hard line, the one he wears when he’s about to scold a congregation for backsliding.
My mother stands just behind him, one hand wrapped around the strap of her handbag. Her eyes are already shiny, red around the rims and mascara smudged at the corners. She looks like she’s been crying for hours.
My stomach drops so fast I sway.
“Dad…?” My voice comes out thin and confused. “What are you… What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer. He just steps fully into the office, crowding the small space, and shuts the door behind them both with a soft click that sounds a lot more ominous than the slam from a second ago. The air seems to shrink; the little room feels about half its normal size with the two of them in it.
My mother’s gaze lands on me, and she flinches. “Oh, baby,” she whispers, and somehow the softness in her voice is worse than the anger in my father’s eyes. “How could you?”
The words hit me like a slap, even though I don’t know what I’m being hit for yet. My brain latches onto the most obvious explanation. “Is it… Did something happen? Is it Eli? Or Grandma? Did someone—”
“Don’t,” my father cuts in, voice vicious enough to slice. “Do not stand there and act ignorant, Brendon.”
My mouth shuts with an audible click. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat now. Anger is radiating off him—that cold, righteous kind that never ends well for anyone on the receiving end.
“I… don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, because I genuinely don’t. “I’ve been here all afternoon.”
My father laughs, short and humorless. “You have the gall to lie to my face after what I’ve seen.”
“John,” my mother murmurs, putting a hand on his arm. But he shakes her off.
