Page 70 of Dirty Hit
The gravel crunches under my tires when I pull into the drive. From a distance, the cottage looks the way it always does: squat and isolated, trees crowding around trying to hide it from the world.
What’s different is the car parked next to my spot. Small, familiar, and a little beat-up. The figure leaning against it has a bag slung over one shoulder, head tipped back and eyes closed. Either he’s soaking in the last scraps of sunlight, or he’s praying. Either way, my heart does a weird lurch that would piss me off if it didn’t feel so good.
Brendon opens his eyes when the Charger’s engine cuts off. He straightens, pushing off the car, and I watch the way he tries not to smile. He’s in dark jeans and a soft-looking navy sweater over a white collar, hair a little mussed from the breeze. The cuff is still on his wrist, visible where his sleeve has ridden up.
My cuff on my boy. Hell of a welcome home.
The earlier disappointment about him not waiting at the stadium drains out of me.
Of course he didn’t—of course, my Little Sin came straight here to wait in my shadow, instead of trying to cling to me in the sunlight.
I get out of the Charger, slam the door shut, and start toward him; his eyes track me the whole way. When I’m close enough to smell his shampoo over the faint tang of exhaust, his mouth opens, some prepped speech ready to tumble out.
“You’re…” he starts. “Hi. I know I’m early, I just—”
I cut him off with my hand at his throat and my mouth on his.
There’s no finesse in it, no slow build, no teasing brush. It’s a hard, bruising press of lips, teeth scraping. His breath catches, body going rigid for half a second, then he folds into it so fast it’snot even funny—bag thudding against the side of his car as his hands fly up, catching my hoodie.
His lips move under mine, eager and sloppy, and when I squeeze my hand just a little tighter on his throat, he lets out a soft, wrecked sound that goes straight to my dick. He breaks the kiss only when I let him breathe, panting, eyes blown.
“Hey, Daddy,” he breathes, and any leftover irritation I had about anything evaporates in an instant.
The hit at practice, the ache in my ribs, the stupid annoyance at him not waiting outside the stadium; all of it burns up in the heat that flares low in my gut at that greeting.
I huff out a laugh against his mouth, press my forehead to his, and feel his breath fan over my lips.
“Hey, Little Sin,” I murmur. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
He blushes, but there’s no denial in his eyes. “You told me to show up when you say,” he mutters. “You didn’t say I couldn’t be early.”
“Technicality,” I say, amused. “You’re lucky I like your enthusiasm.”
He rolls his eyes, which is brave with my hand still around his throat. “You like anything that feeds your ego.”
“True,” I say. “But I like this more.”
I give his neck a final squeeze, then let go, stepping back just enough to grab the strap of his bag from the ground.
“Come on. If my neighbors drive by and see you making out with me against this car, I’m going to have to kill more people than I planned this week.”
He splutters. “You don’t have neighbors,” he says, following me toward the door anyway.
“Exactly,” I toss over my shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way.”
His shoulders loosen as soon as the door closes behind us, the familiar creak of the hinges and the soft thud of wood against frame sealing us into our own little world again.
There’s a weird thing that happens when he’s here; the cottage feels less like a crime scene and more like a place actual humans could live. The air doesn’t change; the layout doesn’t either. There are probably still trace amounts of bleach and blood in the cracks of the floorboards, no matter how well I clean. But with him in the space, dropping his bag by the table and pulling out his laptop, the whole place shifts from den to den slash study. I never planned on that upgrade.
“Did you eat?” I ask because apparently, this is who I am now.
He blinks. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I grabbed a sandwich on campus between classes.”
I narrow my eyes. “Actual sandwich, or something sad from a vending machine.”
He squirms a little, which answers that. “It had bread,” he mutters.
“Pathetic,” I say, but there’s no bite in it. “Sit. I’m heating something up.”
