Page 79 of Dirty Hit
“Get down,” I tell him. “You’re going to knock everything over.”
He stares at me, then very deliberately knocks a teaspoon off the counter with one paw.
“Cool,” I say. “Love the support.”
I’m rinsing two mugs in the sink, getting everything ready because, I’m apparently hosting a study date and not a walking red flag, when the knock finally comes. My pulse jumps.Jericho’s ears perk, and he hops onto the arm of the couch, watching the door.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel, cross the small living room, then I unlock the deadbolt and open the door.
Dominic fills the hallway, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, with his hair pulled back high. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder, and leans lazily against the frame.
His eyes sweep over me once, head tilted, and that slow, filthy grin curls his mouth. “Hey, Little Sin.”
“Hi, Daddy,” I say, trying for flat and landing somewhere around breathless.
“Hmm, I’ll never fucking get over you calling me that,” he says, stepping past me into the apartment without waiting for an invite. “You look relaxed. Been up to something?”
My ears burn. “Studying?” I lie.
He chuckles as I shut the door. “Yeah, we’re gonna do some of that. After.”
“Dominic,” I warn, already feeling the blush creeping up my neck.
“What?” He drops his bag by the table and turns, feigning innocence. “I meant after I force you to make me coffee and you pretend not to like my jokes. Get your head out of the gutter, church boy.”
“I really hate you,” I mutter, moving to the kitchen to grab his mug.
“You really don’t,” he says, following, leaning against the counter. His hand brushes mine as I reach for the sugar, and my stupid body reacts like he dropped a hand down my back. I keep my eyes on the coffee machine; if he looks at my face too long, he’ll see everything.
Jericho trots over with a meow, and Dominic bends to scratch behind his ears, voice dropping into that stupid soft register heonly uses with the cat—and occasionally with me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“Hey, menace. You judging your dad for his life choices again?”
Jericho purrs and head-butts his hand, little traitor that he is.
“He likes you more than me, since you started feeding him those wet food sachets when I’m not looking,” I mutter.
“Obviously,” Dominic says. “He doesn’t like those dry little misery pebbles all the time.”
“They’re vet-approved,” I protest.
“And condoms are physician-approved. Doesn’t mean they’re fun.”
My face flares as I walk over to the dining room table with our coffees. “If you’re done bonding with my cat and being yourself,” I say, ignoring how my chest warms at the sight of him with Jericho, “administrative law awaits.”
“Bossy,” Dominic mutters, but he drops into a chair at the table and pulls out his casebook. “Relax, Little Sin. Get your books. Show me how fucked I am for this midterm.”
For a little while, it’s fine. Normal, even. We sit at the tiny dining table instead of the couch, because he knows if we sit side by side on soft furniture, there will be less studying and more of his hand sliding up my thigh.
We settle into a rhythm that’s become familiar over the last two months. He sprawls in the chair while I sit upright, pen in hand, running through hypotheticals and spotting issues out loud.
He’s more intelligent than people give him credit for. Once he gets the framework, he catches nuances quickly—tossing out answers with that lazy confidence that makes half the campus melt and the other half want to punch him.
“Stop staring at me,” I say, after the third time I catch him doing it.
“You’re pretty when you’re in teacher mode,” he says, completely unbothered. “Makes me want to be an even worse student.”
“You’re already a terrible student,” I remind him.
