Page 56 of Dirty Hit
“You won’t be ruining the moment,” I add, my voice calm. “It’s about making sure you always have control over what’s happening to you. Got it?”
He nods, eyes blissed out. “Yes, Daddy.”
My hand fists tighter in his hair and I grind forward, feeding him what friction I can while the barrier still exists, but the thin defense lasts maybe ten seconds before I snap. I release him only long enough to shove sweats and briefs down to mid-thigh, cock springing free, flushed and already weeping.
For half a heartbeat he just stares, mouth slack and pink and trembling. The haze in his eyes tells me he’s drifted into that sweet pocket where every new sensation lands twice as heavy—but shock still cuts through the fog.
“I—I’ve never…” he starts, and right now I know he’s not talking about sucking cock. His breath ghosts over the six stainless-steel bars laddering down the underside. “You didn’t say you were… pierced.”
“I didn’t say a lot of things.” I curl a hand around the back of his neck, thumb stroking his damp hairline while I guide him closer. I growl when he licks the tip, slowly fucking losing my mind. “Don’t tease. Finish what you started, baby.”
The first slide past his lips is shallow, more tease than thrust, just enough for the top two bars to nudge against his tongue.
He moans—raw, startled, awestruck—and the vibration punches straight through me. I tighten my grip in his hair, a silent warning to hold still, then draw back just far enough to see him lick the tip again.
He ducks forward instead, nose sliding against the base of my cock like he’s starving for scent before taste. Fuck me, I wasn’tready for how filthy it looks: Brendon on his knees, rubbing his face over me like he’s scent-marking.
“Greedy slut,” I bite out, but I don’t stop him. My hand stays tangled in his hair, and I keep him exactly where he wants to be while he drags the bridge of his nose along the length, inhaling like he’s memorizing every detail.
He nuzzles closer, lips brushing the piercings, breath hot against wet skin. “Smell so good,” he whispers, voice already wrecked. “Need it in my throat—need you everywhere.”
The confession detonates behind my ribs. I fist a tighter grip on his hair, tugging until his neck bends the way I like.
“You’re fixated on the wrong part of me, Little Sin. Thought you wanted cock.”
“I do, but you smell like smoke and salt, and your cologne always makes me so hard. It’s… It’s calming,” he moans. “Teach me how to suck your cock properly, Daddy.”
That snaps off every chain inside my chest. I grip his jaw, thumb stroking the corner of his mouth, and my voice drops to a gravel-rough whisper. “Open, then. Let me fuck that pretty mouth.”
He obeys instantly, mouth wide, eyes glazed. I guide him down slowly this time, letting the bars slide over his tongue one by one. Each click of steel against teeth steals another ragged breath from both of us.
When the head nudges the back of his throat, he gags once, shoulders jerking, but he never pulls back. Instead, he nestles his nose into the thatch of hair at my groin and inhales like he can’t get enough.
I hold there—one hand a vise in his hair, the other cupping his jaw—thumbs pressed hard against cheekbones as I feel every ripple of muscle struggling to accommodate me. The sight makes something savage in me purr.
“Well, look at that,” I say, as I watch him swallow my length without even choking. “The preacher’s son has a throat made for cock.”
I can’t stop myself. I grip the back of his head harder and drag him off halfway, saliva stringing between his lips and my cock, then thrust forward in one smooth stroke, reclaiming the depth. He moans around me, high and broken, and the vibration arcs lightning through my spine.
And he still doesn’t fucking gag.
“Where’d you learn to suck cock like this, church boy?” I taunt, my voice a low snarl becausewhat the fuck?“Who do I need to kill?”
He attempts a reply, but the words dissolve into gurgled sounds around the shaft filling his mouth. And the sight of him speechless, drooling, eyes glassy with devotion… Fuck me, the power high is narcotic.
His throat convulses, the muscles tightening around me as I bottom out again, hips flush to his face. He gags, then forces himself to relax. Tears slip from the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them away, never breaking eye contact. Pride rockets through me, dark and vicious.
I feel the tremor in my own thighs, so I ease back enough for him to drag in air while I stroke his cheek with my thumb.
When I thrust back in, his moan vibrates around me. I feel the climb, the pressure coiling low, weeks of restraint sharpening into a single burning need. This time, I set the rhythm—long, measured thrusts, just enough snap at the end to clink the bars against his teeth.
“That’s it, pretty sinner. Take what you begged for.”
He whimpers, eyes glazed, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth down his chin.
He gurgles a plea I can’t decipher, throat working, and I ease halfway out so he can gasp a lungful of air. Strings of saliva clingbetween the ladder and his swollen lips, silver beads glimmering wet.
He blinks up at me, pupils still blown, tears streaking, mouth hanging open like he’s starving. “Daddy… it hurts so good.”
