Page 21 of Dirty Hit
“Look at you,” I murmur. “Mr. Lane. TA. Top of his class. On his knees on a random Tuesday because the campus psycho counted down from ten.”
His cheeks burn. “Shut up,” he mutters.
“There’s the brat,” I say, satisfaction curling low. “Good. Stay with me.”
I move one foot forward, so the toe of my boot brushes the edge of his knee, and his breath stutters.
“You’re on your knees for a devil now, Little Sin. There’s no pretending this is for anyone’s benefit but mine.” I tilt my head. “And yours, if you stop lying to yourself long enough to admit it. So go on, show me how much you hate this. Lick my boots.”
His gaze drops again, this time not to the floor, but to my boots. The black leather is worn in at the creases, polished this morning and dulled already by campus dust. Nothing special. On anyone else, they’d just be boots. On me, right now, they’re a line he has to decide whether to cross.
“You really get off on making me miserable,” he mutters.
“No,” I say. “I get off on watching you stop pretending you don’t want things.”
His cheeks flare hotter at that. I watch the color crawl up from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears and feel satisfaction curl low in my gut. He looks wrecked already, and I’ve barely touched him.
“Lick my boots, Little Sin,” I repeat.
With fluttering eyes and a tiny, broken exhale, he leans in, lowering his head until his mouth is a breath away from the leather. There’s a heartbeat of hesitation; then his tongue flicksout, dragging a small, tentative line over the scuffed toe of my boot.
Heat slams through me so fast I have to curl my hands into fists. “Good fucking boy,” I breathe.
His shoulders flinch at the praise. The tip of his tongue stutters against the leather, and then he forces himself to keep going, another slow stroke tracing the curve where the scuff breaks the shine. I want to grab his hair, but I want even more to watch him do this without guidance. It’s so much better when his obedience is voluntary.
“Eyes on me,” I say.
He hesitates, tongue still pressed to the leather; then he drags it back into his mouth, lips closing, and lifts his gaze slowly. When he looks up, there’s a shine on his mouth that does something fucked up to my chest.
Fuck me, he looks miserable, turned inside out, and more alive than he has at any point during our little lecture about due process.
He hates me, but he hates himself more. He hates that his body is responding to the one person he should run from. I could spend months peeling that hatred apart. I could spend months making him admit to every twisted thought he has tried to pray away. I could make him fall apart on his knees for me before I ever touch him where he wants it, and I know he would still go home, fold his hands, and beg some silent God to forgive him.
I bite my lip trying to collect myself. If I’m not careful, I am going to do something in this office that even I won’t be able to spin as anything but exactly what it is. I push a slow breath out and open my eyes again, forcing the edges of my smile to soften.
“Stand up,” I say, offering no hand. Brendon pushes to his feet on his own, cheeks blotched red, chin up like defiance can hide the bulge straining his slacks. It doesn’t. We both see it. “Goodboy. You did very well. You listened, and you stayed, so that earns you a reward.”
He opens his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to beg—but all that escapes is a shudder when I push him against the door and cup him through those prim charcoal slacks.
He’s iron-hard. Of course he is. His body’s the only honest part of him left. I give him one slow squeeze, thumb tracing the length straining along his crotch. He gasps and drops his head against my chest. I know exactly how worked-up he is, and I’m going to use it.
“You make a pretty picture, Little Sin—hard as fuck and ready to shame yourself for a murderer.” I breathe near his ear, letting each word rumble against his skin. “All this from licking my boot? Does degradation get this Christian cock off?”
I roll my palm once, feeling the shape of him against my hand, and he makes that sound—half-hitch, half-plea—that tells me he’s right on the edge already. Pathetic. Perfect. I keep the pressure feather-light, just enough to keep him frantic without tipping him over.
“Answer me,” I murmur, turning my head so my lips brush the shell of his ear. “Does the good little TA get hard when I call him filthy? When I tell him to lick dirt off my boots?”
His breath stutters, and I feel it more than I hear it. “I… I don’t…”
I tighten my grip on him a fraction, squeezing the head through the fabric. His knees dip. “Try again, Brendon.”
A tremor ripples through him. “Yes.” Barely a whisper, cracking on thes. “Yes, Dominic.”
I slide my hand from his cock to his hip, then wedge my thigh between his legs. I grab his wrists, pin them high over his head in one hand, and flatten my other palm on the small of his back, forcing him forward until his zipper drags along the seam of my thigh. The contact rips a gasp from him, choked and helpless.
“Ride it,” I order, voice pitched low enough that it vibrates in the narrow space between us. “Rub that good-boy cock against me until you ruin those pretty slacks. Show me how badly you need the degradation.”
Brendon’s eyes are glassy with panic and want, but he doesn’t move. So I flex my thigh once, grinding up. The friction punches a sob out of him, and his hips buckle before he can stop himself. One jerky thrust, then another, and he catches the rhythm like a drowning man latching onto breath.
