Page 25 of Dirty Hit
“Nothing,” I say automatically, harsher than I probably intend because if I don’t bite first, he’s going to sink his teeth in. I’m already holding myself together with duct tape and prayers I’m not even saying anymore.
“I like the mouth on you. You try so hard to be polite; but the second I push, you snap. You keep telling me you hate me, but you haven’t shoved me off onto another TA. You get on your knees when I tell you to. You put that pretty little tongue on my boot because I said so, and now you can’t stop thinking about it.”
My spine locks so hard my chair creaks. The room tightens around me, shrinking to the table, his bare forearms, the flex of his fingers on the edge, the memory of my knees grinding into carpet. I look up and meet his eyes, the awareness in them making my stomach flip.
“You shouldn’t bring that up,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I want. “It was wrong.”
“Didn’t hear you calling for help,” he says. “Did hear you making that little noise again, though.”
A mortifying burn starts at my collar and races to the tips of my ears. I suck in a breath like he’s slapped me, and my fingers clench around the folder in front of me until the cardboard bites into my skin.
“Nothing happened,” I say. I can hear the lie in my own mouth, which means he definitely hears it too. “You were being an ass, and I was scared. That’s all.”
“Sure,” he says, drawing the word out. Tasting it. He watches me, then tilts his head. “What part bothers you more: the fact that you did it, or the fact that you liked it?”
“I didn’t—”
The denial trips all over itself before it’s even fully formed. My teeth sink into my lower lip, hard enough that a sharp pain cuts through the heavy, hot embarrassment, giving me something else to focus on. I stare at a crack in the table so I don’t have to see his face.
“I didn’t like it,” I manage finally, stubbornly digging my heels in because admitting anything else feels worse than anything he could do with his hands.
I can feel the weight of the look he gives me, even without seeing it. “No? That why you humped my leg and can’t stop staring at my hands?”
My gaze jerks down without my consent, landing on his fingers where they’re resting on the tabletop—long and relaxed and capable of horrible things. Betrayal floods my chest, because he’s right: I am staring. I’ve been staring, tracing the veins under his skin and the ghost of his touch on my throat and lower, andoh God. I drag my eyes back up too fast, throat tight.
“I’m not into… I’m… Idon’tlike men,” I say, and even to my own ears it sounds pathetic.
“You’re a terrible liar. It’s cute. Kind of infuriating. You know what else is cute? The way your tongue looked on leather. The way your throat worked when you swallowed that first taste and realized you liked kneeling for me.”
The image hits me so hard it might as well be on a screen in front of my face.
“Shut up,” I whisper, because it’s the only thing I can get past the tightness in my throat.
“Nah, I like my voice. Besides, you need to hear this. You keep acting like I’m forcing you into something that doesn’t already live in your head, but the truth is, you’re the one who came out here again after seeing what you saw. You’re the one who sat back down at this table after I told you exactly what I am. You’re the one who called me back after I told you to kneel.”
The worst part is that he isn’t entirely wrong, and that realization makes bile rise in my throat.
“You terrify me,” I burst out, and there it is, the truth I’ve been trying not to name, cracking open between us. It hangs there, raw, before I can stuff it back down.
He leans in, eyes fixed on mine. “Yeah? Then please tell me why you still came today?”
“Because I have to be here,” I say. “The department assigned me because I’m the best at what I do.”
“That’s the script, but I’m asking why you’re here when you could’ve gone to Professor Hargrove and told him you weren’t comfortable. You could’ve called the cops, but you didn’t. You’re here, at my table, in my house, after everything you saw.”
His calm pisses me off enough that I snap again. “You sit there acting like you’re some kind of savior because you haven’t murdered me yet. Like I should be grateful you’re… interested.Like it’s a privilege to lick your boots and listen to you talk about how fucked up you are.”
“It is a privilege,” he says quietly. “For you.”
I scoff incredulously. “There’s the narcissist,” I say. “You know how many guys on campus would worship you just for breathing in their direction? You want pure adoration, they’re out there. Find one. I’m not going to fall on my face and thank you for not killing me.”
“No,” he says with a laugh. “You’re going to fall on your face and thank me for not letting you keep living half-asleep.”
I stiffen, offense flaring hot. “I was not half-asleep,” I say. “I’ve been—”
“You were sleepwalking through your own life,” he cuts in. “Church, class, study, smile, nod, never say no. You’ve been saying yes to everyone and everything except yourself for so long that you forgot what wanting feels like. Then I walk in, and suddenly you remember you have a pulse. You hate that it took someone like me to wake you up, but it did, and now you’re here.”
“No!” I snap, and it comes out louder than I planned, echoing in the small cottage. There’s a nasty, dizzy part of me that feels better for screaming it at him, instead of at the ceiling in my empty apartment.
