Page 59 of Dirty Hit
“Fuck you,” he croaks, but there’s no heat in it.
“Oh, look at you. One taste of cock and you’re suddenly sayingfuckwithout blushing,” I say, and carry him toward the kitchen while he grumbles some more.
The counter’s already clear, because I keep this place ready for… other uses. Tonight, it gets a new one. I set him down carefully on the edge, one hand still firm on his hip until I’m sure he isn’t about to tip.
Up close, I can see the change happening in his face in real time. The floaty, hazy look from a minute ago is fading, replaced by the first hints of what I know is coming. There’s gonna be a pinch of his brow, the flicker of panic around his eyes as his brain starts rebooting and tries to replay everything we just did in high definition.
Nope. Not letting that get a foothold.
“Stay there,” I tell him, giving his knee a light tap. “Don’t move unless I tell you to. You fall off this fucking counter because you’re being stubborn, I’m gonna be pissed.”
He huffs weakly. “You’re always pissed,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I just came, so right now, you get the calm version. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
His mouth twitches, and I turn away to grab water from the fridge before I talk myself into saying something human and disgusting. The bottle’s cold in my hand, condensation already gathering where my fingers wrap around it. I twist the cap off and turn back to him.
“Here,” I say, pressing it into his hand. “Small sips, since my bars probably scraped your throat raw. You chug and puke, I’m making you clean it.”
He scowls but takes it, and I watch the tremor in his fingers. It’s small, but it’s there. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and drinks like I told him—slow, careful, throat working with each swallow. His eyes are on my throat while he does it, like staring at me anchors him more than looking at the room.
“Good,” I say. “Again.”
While he drinks, I pull open the fridge again and grab the container of leftover chicken pasta I shoved in there last night. I dump a decent portion into a pan and crank the burner on, letting the gas catch with a softwhoosh. The smell of tomato and herbs rises as it heats, familiar and grounding in a way that has nothing to do with taste and everything to do with routine.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a little steadier now.
“Feeding you,” I say, looking over my shoulder. “Water, food, warmth. Basic patch job.”
“You don’t… have to.” He stares down at the bottle, thumb worrying at the plastic label. “I can eat at home.”
“Yeah, you can,” I say. “Later. Right now, you’re going to sit on that counter and let me take care of the mess I just made of your nervous system.”
His cheeks flush, but not for the reason they did ten minutes ago. Worry’s starting to creep in around the edges. I can see it by the way his shoulders creep up and his eyes dart to the door.
“Don’t,” I say immediately.
“Don’t what?” he asks, trying for defensive and not quite getting there.
“Don’t climb back into your own head yet,” I say as I stir the pasta, glancing over my shoulder at him again. “You’re not ready for that.”
“But—”
“Brendon.” I make his name a warning. “Legs on the counter, brain on pause. That’s the deal.”
He swallows and clamps his mouth shut, which I’m going to file away and use against him later. He shifts his weight, repositioning himself so both heels rest against the cabinet. His gaze tracks me as I move, not quite suspicious, more… searching. As if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and doesn’t know which direction it’s coming from.
I plate the pasta when it’s hot, grab a fork, then step back into his space, one hand sliding back to his hip, squeezing once to center him.
“Open for me.”
He automatically parts his lips, but realization hits half a second later, and a blush blooms high on his cheekbones. “I can feed myself,” he grumbles.
“I know,” I say. “But I want to do it. You can say no if your ego can’t handle it.”
He hesitates, but doesn’t say no. I lift the fork to his mouth again and he takes the bite, chewing slowly. His shoulders drop a notch, and everything about him screams exhausted.
“Good boy,” I murmur. “Again.”
