Page 78 of Dirty Hit
There’s a tightness low in my belly that has nothing to do with the process and everything to do with the fact that my brain keeps replaying his voice from three nights ago.
“You’ll know when I’m ready to fuck you, Little Sin. You won’t need to beg.”
So I’m not guessing. I’m just… preparing. Completely different thing. Obviously.
“Congratulations,” I mutter at my reflection as I towel off. “You’ve become the guy who preps for sex that hasn’t even been scheduled.”
Jericho sits in the doorway, tail flicking, eyes narrowed like he’s been watching the whole production and is personally offended by all of it.
“Don’t,” I tell him, scrubbing at my skin a little too hard. “I don’t need commentary.”
He blinks at me slowly, which is basically his version of a sermon.
I step into my bedroom, air cooler now on my overheated skin, and cross to my dresser. The top drawer slides open with a familiar creak. Socks, folded shirts—a neat, innocent layer of fabric that definitely doesn’t hide anything incriminating underneath.
Before I can stop myself, I pull it open the rest of the way.
The plug sits there in the middle of the drawer, black silicone against white plastic, right next to a bottle of lube. I bought it on a night I was half delirious from the way Dominic had left me hanging, body buzzing and mind fried. Two clicks, one discreet package, and now it lives in my drawer like a homing beacon.
My face goes nuclear.
“Absolutely not,” I tell the plug, slamming the drawer shut so fast I almost catch my fingers and lean my forehead against the wood.
I’ve been using it, at least enough times to get my body used to the idea of more. Enough that the thought of him finally deciding he wants to be inside me doesn’t send my muscles clenching in panic anymore, but in anticipation.
“This is fine,” I tell myself, grabbing clean underwear, sweats, and a plain navy T-shirt. “He’s coming over to study. That’s all. We’re going to talk about administrative law and evidentiary burdens, not the fact that you just douched like a porn star because your brain’s decided Daddy might want more.”
I say the last part under my breath. It’s gotten easier to say when Dominic’s hand is on my throat and his voice is in my ear. Alone in my room, with my cat and my ridiculous self-care routine, it feels… raw.
It still hits me sometimes how easily I’ve fallen into this; how the idea of being with a man started to feel less like a sin and more like an inevitability. Dominic has gradually helped me come to terms with the fact that I am gay, and I’m strangely... okay with that.
I towel-dry my hair, run my fingers through it until it falls the way I can live with, then I go to scrub my teeth so hard my gums sting.
The thing is, it’s not even like he’s pressured me. We’ve done… a lot. More than I thought I’d ever do with anyone, let alone with a man.
My knees have seen more of his hardwood than my bed lately, and I’ve gotten far too comfortable with the way he uses my mouth, how he handles me, and with the way he talks to me when I let go.
But he hasn’t pushed for more. The closest he’s come is a lazy murmur of,“One day, I’m gonna be inside you, Little Sin,”said against my throat when we were lying on his couch and I was half-asleep on his chest. It wasn’t a demand, it was a promise. My whole body responded like he’d flipped a switch.
I went home that night and typed “how to bottom without dying” into my incognito search bar like a coward.
Now, here I am—douching on weeknights, stretching slowly when I’m alone, and biting down on my fist because there’s no one here to tell me I’m doing well when it burns. He doesn’t know I’m doing this, either. Hecan’tknow. If he knew, he’d say something filthy and smug, and my brain would implode.
I glance at the clock. Half an hour.
Okay. Focus. I shove the whole mental drawer labeled“things I do so maybe sex won’t kill me”into a back corner of my mind, and head for the kitchen.
I clean my already clean apartment for ten minutes, just to move and not think—stack my textbooks neatly on the small dining table, straighten the throw blanket on the back of the couch.
Jericho tracks me from room to room, occasionally darting out to bat at my ankles like he’s trying to trip me on purpose.
“You’re not helping,” I inform him, picking up a stray sock and stuffing it into the hamper.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I grab it.
Dominic:Leaving now. You better have coffee.
I roll my eyes, even as my stomach does that stupid swoop, and put on a pot of coffee. Jericho hops onto the counter, tail flicking dangerously close to the filter.
