Page 74 of Dirty Hit
I cross the short distance to the kitchen, and set him down on the edge of the island, hands steady on his waist until I’m sure he’s not going to wobble off in shock.
He blinks, looking around like he’s never seen this countertop before. “You like putting me on furniture,” he mutters.
“It’s a good height,” I say. “I like my things where I can see them.”
His gaze flicks down to the countertop, then back up. “Should I be concerned about the history here?”
I huff a laugh. “You want the truth?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I always want the truth.”
I step between his knees, palms sliding up the fronts of his thighs to rest on his hips, and look up at him. He looks out of place and exactly right, more alive than anyone else who’s ever sat here.
“I’ve prepped bodies here: cleaned blades, bagged evidence, and sorted clothes from kills. There was a guy last year who tried to blackmail one of the linebackers; his blood dried in that corner before I scrubbed it.” I nod toward the far edge, where the wood still has a slightly darker stain no amount of bleach will fix.
He swallows hard, fingers curling against the edge of the island. “That’s… reassuring,” he mutters, because he can’t help himself.
“I’ve fucked on this counter,” I add, because honesty is on theme. “More than once. It’s been an altar to a lot of bad decisions.”
His chest rises faster, jealousy and arousal and horror twisting together in his eyes. “You’re really selling this surface. Do you have a point, or are you just trying to make me never want to eat here again?”
My hands slide up to his ribs again, thumbs brushing back under the hem of his sweater, feeling the heat of his skin.
“The point is, this counter has seen some shit, Little Sin.” I turn my smile softer, some of that stupid locker-room grin sneaking back in around the edges. “But out of every fucked-up thing I’ve done on this piece of wood, you sitting on it like this is my favorite. Nothing comes close.”
He swallows, throat working, fingers reaching automatically for my shoulders again. “You’re going to ruin me, Dominic Volkov,” he says.
My kitchen has seen a lot of darkness. A lot of violence. A lot of sin. Right now, with him sitting on my island, eyes wide, and trusting, and defiant all at once, it feels more dangerous than any of that.
And I’m fucked, because I don’t want it to stop.
Dominic
BrendonLanehasburrowedinto my head like a virus I can’t shake, infecting everything with quiet, inconvenient need. It’s not about owning him anymore—that was the door he cracked open when he knelt for me.
Now, it’s more. Worse. Addictive in a way I never planned for.
Obsession never announces itself. It doesn’t kick in the door, like wrath. Doesn’t slash your tires like vengeance or leave claw marks in the backs of your lungs the way guilt does. It settles.
I should be focused on stats, on footage from the away game we just won, or on whatever PR bullshit they’re going to throw at me the moment we get back. But all I can think about is how long it’s been since I touched him.
It’s only been three days, which is nothing.
And also unbearable.
I spent last night in a hotel suite, where a redhead slipped her room key into my palm and whispered that she could “make me forget the game.” I said no, because Brendon wouldn’t havebeen able to look me in the eye if I’d said yes. He wouldn’t say anything; he’d just go quiet in that way he does.
I don’t like that look on him.
I want to be the only reason his mouth opens or his hands shake.
I want to be the only one who puts color in his cheeks.
I want—
Shit, there it is again—the obsession that eats slowly from the inside out. Nothing ends well when you wrap your fists around something soft and whisper ‘mine.’
But I’m already past whispering.
