Page 19 of Dirty Hit
His brows pull together, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“You’ve been saying yes your whole life: yes to your parents, yes to church, yes to professors, yes to Keller when he dumps me in your lap. Smile when you don’t want to, nod when you want to scream. You’re so fucking used to saying yes for other people that you’ve never noticed how much you want to say it for yourself.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he protests, voice thin.
“It makes perfect sense,” I say. “Tell me, why aren’t you clawing at me? Why aren’t you yelling for help? Why aren’t you reaching for your phone, the intercom, anything?”
I lean in before he can answer, bringing my mouth close to his ear. I can feel the heat of him through his shirt, his chest pressed to mine, his heart slamming between us like it wants out.
“You know why. Because right now, you don’t have to decide. You don’t have to weigh whether this is right or wrong, what your parents would say, or what God would do. You can justreact and let your body do the talking for you. And your body?” I give his throat the slightest squeeze, and another soft sound escapes him without permission. “Baby, your body’s not arguing with me.”
He sucks in a stuttered breath. “It doesn’t mean I like you touching me,” he says, but it comes out shaky, too close to a plea to land as defiance. “You’re a violent psychopath who doesn’t understand boundaries.”
“I understand boundaries fine. Right now, I’m pressing on all of yours on purpose to see which ones hold and which ones were just painted on by someone else. You know what I’m seeing? A lot of chipped paint.”
His lips press together in a thin, stubborn line, but his eyes give him away. I ease my hand away from his throat, dragging my fingers slowly down the column of it and over the quick beat of his pulse, letting them settle on his collarbone.
He gasps at the loss and, at the same time, slumps a fraction against the wall.
“You want control?” I ask quietly. “You can have it. You want me to stop, say it. You want me to go back to pretending I’m just your dumb jock student, say it. You want me never to touch you again, say it. I’ll walk out that door.”
He stares at me, expression caught somewhere between suspicion and hope. “You’d just… stop?”
“If you really wanted me to,” I say, and I mean it. It wouldn’t be fun, because playing with a broken toy is boring. “But that’s not what you want, and we both fucking know it. You can either cling to whatever’s left of that good boy image and keep lying to yourself about what you want, or you can be honest, just once, and see what happens.”
Suspicion flares again. “You’re going to make me do something messed up.”
“I’m going toofferyou something messed up,” I correct. “You’re the one who will decide to do it.”
I let my gaze drop, not to his crotch, but lower to the floor between us. The cheap industrial carpet is ugly but clean, the same pale gray as every other faculty office on campus.
“You say that I don’t know you, but I can see right through your little good boy act, Brendon. You like being responsible—it’s familiar, but it’s also killing you. So, I’m going to give you an out…” I lean in close. “There’s some sick, buried part of you that wants someone bigger, meaner, and more fucked up to take control.”
A tremor runs through him that has nothing to do with fear. “You’re wrong,” he says. “You’re completely…”
“Am I? Because if I am, this next part’s going to be easy for you to refuse.” I shift my stance and take a step backward. “Kneel.”
His eyes drag up from my boots to my face—disbelief, fury, and interest all tangled together.
“You killed someone in front of me, and now you want me to kneel for you,” he says. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Perfectly,” I say. “Here’s the part you don’t want to look at. You’re already kneeling. Not physically, but you’ve been kneeling for everyone else’s expectations your whole goddamn life. I’m just honest about what I’m asking you to do. I’m not hiding it behind God, grades, or parental approval. I’m telling you straight up: get on your knees for me, because I want to see you there.”
His fingers curl into fists at his sides. “That’s not happening,” he says, but he doesn’t move to leave. He doesn’t shove past me. He stays pinned between the wall and my presence, and looks at me like he’s trying to find the angle where this becomes a moral question instead of a physical one.
“Alright,” I say easily, taking a step back, giving him room. “Then I’ll go.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You don’t want to,” I say with a shrug. “That’s your call. I told you I’m big on choice. You want to keep pretending you don’t have this in you, I can play along. I’ll walk out, and we’ll go back to normal: tutor and student. You’ll correct my essays, I’ll nod and smile, and we’ll both pretend you didn’t make that sound when my hand was on your throat.”
His cheeks flame. “I wasn’t—”
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
I turn like I’m going to leave, making a show of straightening up, walking toward the door, and reaching for the handle.
“Wait,” he says, before he can stop himself.
