Page 32 of Dirty Hit
I huff out a quiet breath. “I know enough to call that you went home and took care of yourself thinking about me.”
Color surges across his cheekbones again, instant and violent. His fingers curl tighter in the blanket, and he glares, but it’s watery at the edges. “You’re disgusting.”
“Probably,” I agree. “Still chained yourself to the thought of me the second you got home, though. Didn’t you?”
“I’m not chained to anything,” he bites out.
Sure. He can say that all he wants, but I don’t need a collar or a chain to know he’s leashed.
He’s already tethered to this—to me—he just doesn’t realize how little slack there is in that chain yet. It’s all in the way he tugged me back from the exit just now without knowing why.
He can’t help it. Good boys never can.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I say quietly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t wrap that good little hand around your cock last night while thinking about me.”
He looks like he might spit some righteous bullshit at me, but he doesn’t. He stares at me, frozen, and the silence answers for him.
I smile, slow and filthy. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
His eyes flash. “I hate you—”
“Stop lying to both of us,” I cut him off, leaning in until my nose almost brushes his.
He sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel it ghost across my lips. His eyes flick down again, that same traitorous move, and it makes my own pulse jump.
I keep my voice pitched low just for him.
“You know what I thought about last night? Because, believe it or not, you’re not the only one with a fucked-up imagination.”
He swallows again, throat working under skin that’s too soft. “I don’t… want to know.”
“I thought about your face,” I murmur, ignoring him. “I thought about how you sounded when I pressed my hand to your neck in that office. I thought about how your knees went a little weak, how your eyes rolled just enough to show white.”
His breath shudders out, but he still chases my lips with his. “Stop—”
“I thought,” I continue, ignoring him again, “about what it would look like if I had you in my bed instead of standing against a wall—”
“Dominic,” he whispers, and this time it comes out closer to a plea than a protest.
I lower my voice, angling my mouth so my words brush his lips. “Did you stroke yourself thinking about that? About my hand around your throat while you made those sounds I like? Did you close your eyes and imagine me telling you what to do, instead of doing it in the dark like some dirty secret?”
He lets out a broken noise that sits right between a whine and a groan, and every part of me lights up. The soft little crack inhis voice I’ve been craving since his office; it vibrates against my mouth now instead of my palm, intimate in a different way.
I could chase that for hours. I have to push down an insane urge to just pin him again and see how many variations of that sound I can drag out of him before he cries.
But I keep myself in check by inches, holding the leash tight, because blowing this too big, too fast will ruin the fun.
I want him ruined slowly.
He opens his eyes again, and the look in them is pure chaos: fear, anger, want, shame. All of it churning. “What do you want from me, Dominic?”
That’s the fun part, because I could list a hundred things—him on his knees, bleeding for me in ways no one else will ever see. But right now, I want to open the door without blowing it off the hinges.
I hum and pull back so I can see his face properly. “What doyouwant, Brendon?” I ask instead.
He stares at me like I’ve asked him to choose between Heaven and Hell. His mouth opens, and his throat works. The clock on his nightstand ticks loudly in the quiet room.
“I-I… don’t know,” he whispers finally.
