Page 33 of Dirty Hit
I believe that, actually. He’s been told his entire life that wanting anything outside a narrow list is wrong. He’s been shoving everything that doesn’t fit into a dark corner and nailing boards over it. Now I’ve ripped a few boards up, shone a light straight in, and he’s staring at everything inside.
“You don’t know,” I repeat quietly, and he gives me a jerky nod. “Lucky for you, I do.”
His eyes go wider. “Dominic—”
I don’t give him time to finish whatever thin protest he thinks he should make. My hand moves from the mattress to his throat in one smooth motion, fingers wrapping around the column ofhis neck. I don’t squeeze hard, but his pulse jumps frantically under my thumb.
His lips part on a shaky inhale, and I hear that sound again. A soft, broken whine, dragged up from somewhere deep and unpolished. It hits me the same way now: a chill that runs from the base of my skull, down my spine, settling low in my fucking balls.
There it is—the surrender. The piece of him that’s been dying for someone to hold him tight enough, so he can stop pretending he’s fine.
“Open for me, Little Sin,” I whisper, then lean in the last inch and press my mouth to his.
The kiss hits like a collision. Hours of holding back and imagining this without letting myself admit that’s what I was doing.
His lips are soft and a little dry, parted against mine in shock, and that first contact is like a match on gasoline. I don’t go gentle, not really, but I don’t go full feral either. I keep it on that edge, kissing him like I’ve wanted to since the moment he mouthed off to me with his back against his office wall, but giving him enough room to take from me if he wants it.
And fuck me, does he take it.
There’s a moment, right after the shock burns off, where his mouth moves against mine with this raw, inexperienced hunger that hits me harder than anything else.
He doesn’t kiss the way someone practiced does. There’s no slick, rehearsed rhythm; it’s messy, a little desperate, and honest. He makes another noise into my mouth, and I have to curl my fingers tighter around his throat to steady myself.
His hands, which have been fisted in the blanket, come up between us, then slide up my sides instead, fingers bunching in the fabric of my T-shirt near my ribs. He clutches at me, pulling me closer instead of creating space.
The kiss turns messier, heat building fast—his breathing ragged through his nose, mine rougher than I want to admit. I keep the pressure at his throat firm but not restrictive, my thumb stroking the flutter of his pulse. It pounds wild, a trapped bird against my skin—terror, desire, anticipation, all of it singing through that single vein.
I feel the precise second the last of his resistance slips: his thighs loosen beneath my knees, the muscles in them unclenching. One heartbeat he’s rigid with second-guessing, the next he melts, legs falling apart like an invitation.
The high hits me at the exact moment his teeth catch on my bottom lip.
I know adrenaline. I know how it floods your veins when someone’s life is in your hands, when you watch the light in their eyes dim slowly, when you feel that final, stuttering heartbeat go quiet. That used to be the only time I felt anything. Everything else, even football, even the roar of a crowd chanting my name, felt muted in comparison.
This is the same high I used to chase in other people’s endings.
The only difference is that Brendon’s eyes will be alive and blown wide when I pull back, not empty and glassy. His chest is heaving because I kissed him, not because his lungs are shutting down. The trembling in his hands is from want and nerves, not from oxygen leaving his brain for good.
He’s not dying; he’s coming to life under me.
For a split second, the overlap twists my stomach—because killing and kissing shouldn’t share the same shelf. But then thewrongnesstwists into something that feels a lot likerightin my fucked-up head.
And I am so fucked.
His legs tighten around me. He’s not even aware of it; the motion is instinct, a silentcloser. I shift my hips, just a nudge,letting the rigid line of my dick brush his hardening cock. The friction drags a groan from both of us.
I break the kiss slowly, dragging it out, catching his bottom lip gently between my teeth before letting it go. He makes a soft sound, dazed, and my hand eases off his throat, thumb stroking once more before I slide my fingers to his jaw instead.
Holy fuck, the way he looks at me—shocked at his own pleasure, terrified by how much he needs more—lights a fire under my skin I didn’t know could burn hotter.
His lips are swollen and slick, flushed dark. There’s a smear of color across his cheeks, and his hair is a wreck against the pillow.
“Look at you,” I murmur, taking him in. “All fucked up and we barely did anything.”
He swallows, chest rising and falling fast. “You… kissed me,” he says dumbly.
“Was that what it was?” I ask, mouth curving. “Thought I hallucinated it.”
He scowls weakly. “You’re an asshole.”
