Page 96 of Dirty Hit
Of course the same brain that was taught to fear God’s anger, and worship his protection, has now decided to misfile those instincts under me. My protection, violence, possessiveness—all wrapped around his body like a shield instead of aimed at him.
Of course some deep, twisted part of him responded to watching me weaponize myself on his behalf.
“Well, fuck,” I murmur, half to myself. “You’ve got a violence kink.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Voyeuristic violence,” I say, still tasting the shape of it. “You get off on watching me be a monster, especially when it’s for you. Not just the aftermath, not just the idea, but the actual impact—the sound, the sight, the knowledge that it’s happening because of you. That’s what had you so worked up you tried to climb over the bleachers the other day. That’s what’s got you pressing your tongue down my throat right now instead of calling the cops.”
Color surges up his neck, but he doesn’t deny it; his fingers tighten in my shirt instead. “You say that like it’s not fucked up,” he whispers.
“Oh, it’s fucked up,” I say, and I let a slow, filthy grin spread across my face. “Which is why it fits perfect, Little Sin. You were never going to be vanilla.”
He swallows, eyes flicking to my mouth again. “I should… I should be upset,” he says. “I should be yelling at you.”
“You can yell while you’re stripped down on my sheets,” I say. “You can scream, if you want. Just be honest about what your dick’s doing while we talk about it.”
He makes a low sound that’s basically a groan of pure frustration. “You’re supposed to be horrified with me right now.”
I huff a laugh. “Brendon, I’m a murderer. I’m not going to clutch my pearls because my boyfriend got a little turned on watching me be an asshole in a parking lot.”
He jerks back enough to glare at me, eyes shining. “Don’t say that word.”
“What, murderer?” I ask, knowing that’s not what he means.
“Boyfriend,” he snaps, but his fingers don’t loosen on my hoodie.
I tilt my head, studying him. “You’d rather‘the guy who puts his cock in your mouth three nights a week’?”
His face flames. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m observant,” I say, my hand slipping to his throat, thumb stroking along the curve, feeling the rapid hum of his pulse under my fingers. “You liked that someone stepped in and enforced your ‘no’ without making you explain why it mattered. You liked that the person doing it was the same one who holds your throat while you call him Daddy.” I lean in, letting my lips brush his ear. “You liked that your Beast bared his teeth for you.”
He shudders—a full-body tremor that I feel all the way down to my bones. “Stop calling yourself that,” he mutters, which is hilarious considering he’s the one who named me.
“Don’t get to give the monster a name and then complain when he answers to it, baby,” I say, and kiss him again.
This time, I set the pace; slow at first, letting him feel the shift in control. My hand stays at his throat, fingers splayed, thumb stroking the line of his jaw. His lips part, and I take my time, licking into his mouth, tasting every soft, broken sound. He answers, eagerly and messily, his hips grinding against mine.
He’s buzzing from adrenaline, guilt, and arousal. I know that feeling; I’ve lived in it most of my life. The difference is, he’s not alone in it now.
After a long minute I pull back, resting my forehead against his, both of us breathing hard.
“Color?” I ask.
“Green,” he says immediately, then laughs, shaky. “I don’t even have to think about it anymore.”
I hook my hands under his thighs and lift, the movement easy with his weight, and instinct kicks in. His legs wrap around my waist, arms looping over my shoulders, and suddenly I’m carrying him through the cottage again, like he’s the only thing I’m built to hold.
His mouth finds mine halfway to the bedroom and I kiss him harder, swallowing every noise he makes for me. The anger that’s been coiled in my gut since the parking lot twists into feral need when his fingers slide into my hair and he whines against my tongue.
Protecting him, hurting someone for him, coming home to him, wired and wild, and finding out he’s just as wired for me—that’s a hit I didn’t know existed.
When we reach the bedroom door, I shove it open with my shoulder and set him down on the edge of the bed, hands framing his face so I can look at him. His lips are swollen, pupils blown, hair sticking up in half a dozen directions. He looks ruined, and somehow more himself than he ever did in all those church pictures his mom posts on Facebook.
“You’re not mad at me,” I say, because I need to hear it from his mouth even if his body already answered.
He laughs, breathless. “I am mad. I’m so fucking mad at you.” His hands slide down my chest, fingers curling into the hem of my shirt. “I’m mad you hit her. I’m mad you didn’t warn me. I’m mad I liked watching you do it. I’m mad I came straight hereinstead of… I don’t know...” He looks up, meeting my eyes head-on. “I’m mad at you, and I still want you more than I have ever wanted anything.”
