Page 89 of Dirty Hit
The closest thing to prayer I’ve done since I met him is saying‘oh, God’when Dominic grazes my prostate with his fingers. The only thing that keeps me up at night now isn’t fear of damnation—it’s the absence of it.
If Hell is real, the fact that I can look at Dominic, knowing exactly what he is, and feel peace instead of horror should send me running. It doesn’t; it makes me press in closer.
I should be horrified that I call a man ‘Beast’ and ‘Daddy’ and mean it. I should be horrified that when he snarls “open” at me, my body obeys faster than it ever has for a worship song. I should be horrified that I get hard remembering his hand around my throat when I’m supposed to be reading case law.
Instead, I’m lying in bed at night, pressed against the cool wall, Jericho sleeping on my feet, replaying the way his voice sounded when he groaned my name and thinking I could probably live here forever.
I respect the hell out of anyone who can do the mental math on that without flinching, because I cannot.
I just try not to look too closely at the numbers.
It’s a Tuesday when everything tilts.
The administration building is almost empty when I finally close my laptop; it’s later than I meant it to be. I had office hours, then a meeting, then three lost undergrads wandered inand begged me to look over their outlines. I said yes, because I always say yes, and now it’s dark outside, the halls are quiet, and my brain is mush.
My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I start packing my things up.
Dominic:Practice ran late. You still on campus?
I smile, thumb flying.
Me:Just leaving. You?
Dominic:Locker room. I’ll swing by your place later. Be a good boy and eat something.
Me:Yes, Daddy.
The three dots pop up immediately, then disappear, then pop up again.
Dominic:You can’t text me that when I’m surrounded by naked teammates, you menace.
Me:Don’t drop the soap.
Dominic:Fuck you. Go home.
“Hey Lane, you heading out?” one of the other TA’s asks, poking his head into the office doorway.
“Yeah,” I say, shoving my laptop into my bag. “Just finishing up.”
“Lock the door,” he says. “Campus police were whining about undergrads hanging around the parking lot again.”
“Will do,” I promise.
I shut down, flick off the lamp, and lock the office door behind me. I’m still grinning when I push through the side door, and step into the cool evening air. The lot is mostly empty, only a few scattered cars under the harsh yellow lights.
I shove my hands in my pockets, hunch my shoulders against the wind, and head out.
My car sits under one of the flickering lights, slightly crooked in its spot because I got here late this morning. When I get closer, I see there’s a figure leaning against the driver’s side door—and my stomach drops.
“Hannah,” I say before I can stop myself.
She straightens when she sees me, arms folded over her chest, blonde hair tucked into a neat headband, coat cinched tight at the waist. The exact kind of girl my parents always pictured beside me in family photos.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out flatter than I intend.
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “Wow. Nice to see you too.”
I glance around automatically, scanning for other people, but there’s no one close enough to help if this turns into another argument. The unease that lives under my sternum shifts.
