Page 20 of Dirty Hit
I don’t smile when I look back over my shoulder. “Yeah?” I ask mildly.
His eyes are bright and furious, and under that, there’s a vulnerability that blows the top of my head open. He looks like he wants to throw something at himself and me simultaneously. “You’re really going to walk out and pretend none of this happened?”
I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of practice pretending.”
“This is insane,” he whispers.
“Probably,” I say, turning to face him fully. “But you’ll sleep better knowing. So get on your knees and show me you know exactly where you belong.”
He stares at me, then at the floor.
“I’m going to give you to the count of ten, because your brain will cycle forever if I let it. We both know that. So. Ten seconds. Either I walk out of this office first, or you’re on your knees when I hit one. You choose.”
His eyes flash. “You’re—”
“Ten,” I start. “Nine.”
He swallows hard, glancing at the door, then back at me.
“Eight. Seven. Six.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, and he mutters a curse under his breath.
“Five.”
He steps away from the wall, and my stomach tightens, but I don’t move.
“Four,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t move past me; he moves closer until he’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I can see the flecks of brown in his eyes, the way his lashes tremble, the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth.
“Three.”
His gaze drops to the floor.
“Two.”
His knees hit the thin carpet with a dull thud that I feel in my bones. He doesn’t fall; he lowers himself, controlled even in surrender, hands planted on his thighs, back straight.
From up here, looking down at him, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, he looks every inch the good boy everyone thinks he is.
Except he’s kneeling forme.
“One,” I finish, even though the countdown’s already over. My voice comes out thicker than I meant it to because his self-loathing is so fucking beautiful.
The position is everything: him below me, spine straight despite the tremor in his shoulders, stare defiant and humiliated.
“Fuck,” I breathe, not bothering to hide it. “That’s a view.”
He swallows hard. “I hate you.”
“You’ll get better at lying,” I say. “Hands behind your back.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Hands behind your back,” I repeat, tone leaving no room for argument. “If you’re going to kneel for me, you’re going to do it properly.”
He hesitates for a heartbeat, then obeys, fingers curling around his own wrists at the small of his back. The position opens his chest, squares his shoulders, and makes his kneeling look intentional rather than accidental. My dick stirs, interested in a way it hasn’t been for anyone in a long time.
