Page 57 of Dirty Hit
“I know, baby,” I thumb his lower lip, then feed him back down. “Touch yourself. Show me how pretty you look when you come undone.”
He tries, hand fumbling between his legs, pulling out his cock while I fuck his mouth hard. The sight rips a groan from me—Brendon wrecked, choking around piercings he never expected, rutting helplessly against his own hand.
I watch the way his wrist moves—fast, needy, out of sync with the slow torture I’m feeding his throat. He’s split between rhythm and chaos, and it’s perfect.
It hits me harder than any high I’ve ever chased.
I feel the warning in the tremble of his thighs before he does; in the telltale staccato gasps, the flutter of his lashes. I pull out far enough for air, hand sliding to cradle his jaw. “Hold it.”
He tries, hips jerking against his fist, but he’s seconds from spilling. I tighten my grip.
“Look at me.” His eyes snap up, wild and glassy. “Now you can come.”
He comes with a choked cry, hot stripes landing on his knuckles and the hardwood between us. I shove back in and claim his mouth one final time.
“Gonna fill your throat, Brendon.” My voice cracks. “Gonna paint it so thick you taste me every time you swallow.”
His answer is a frantic hum—begging for it.
He relaxes his throat on instinct, lids fluttering shut in bliss for the first time. The room echoes with wet sounds—slick pulls, choked swallows, my breathing turning ragged as the coil snaps tight.
“Take it—fuck—take it.”
One final thrust and I lock my hips, cock pulsing. I flood him with a groan that nearly buckles my knees, hand locked in his hair as pleasure wrings every muscle taut. He swallows around each pulse, greedier than he’s ever dared to be.
When aftershocks fade, I guide him off slowly. He gasps for air, strands of hair sticking to the sweat on his cheeks. I brush them back, and he turns his face into my palm, nuzzling, inhaling me like I’m oxygen.
I wrap my hand around his wrist before he can wipe his cum away. His fingers tremble when I bring them to my mouth, not breaking eye contact, and I curl my tongue around the first knuckle.
I suck his fingers clean, lips sealing tight until the only thing left is spit-shine and the memory of how hard he came for me. He’s panting again by the time I finish, eyes blown wide, lips parted around a ruined little gasp. When I let his hand go, it drops boneless to his thigh.
“You taste like sin, Professor,” I murmur, my voice rough. He shivers at the nickname, and I feel the answering twitch of interest in my own spent cock. Greedy thing never stays satisfied.
“Was I… Did I do good?” he whispers suddenly.
“Good?” I tuck myself away, pull my sweats back up, then sink to my haunches. I tug him forward by the back of his neck and kiss him, tasting myself on his tongue and letting the slow drag of lips ground me from the feral edge I’ve been balanced on for days. He melts, sighing into the kiss. “So fucking good, Little Sin. Color?”
“Green,” he murmurs, then smiles weakly. “Maybe yellow on my knees; they kinda hurt.”
I huff a rough laugh, pressing a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. We stay tangled on the floor—predator and willing prey—while the monster in my chest purrs, finally fed.
“Up you go,” I say after a beat, and lift him easily, tucking him away and steadying him when he wobbles. His hands clutch my shoulders, and for a second everything feels quiet; the monster is fed, the tension bled out.
His head drops to my chest, breath warm through the cotton. “You with me?” I ask.
A tiny nod. “Mhm.”
I kiss him again and he melts into it, boneless, grateful, and utterly fucked, while I savor the weight of his surrender.
My chest shouldn’t squeeze like this—I shouldn’t feel anything tender, yet his voice threads through places I thought long dead.
But I know what comes next for good boys like him—
The cliff edge.
And that means the drop’s coming.
Dominic
