Page 63 of Dirty Hit
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Was I…” He hesitates, then pushes through. “Did it… Did this… help?”
I stare at him, the honesty of it hitting somewhere I usually keep boarded up. Most people don’t ask me that. Most people never see the before and after.
“Yeah,” I say finally, and the word feels strange in my mouth. “It helped. I’m not… climbing out of my skin anymore. I don’twant to go back out there tonight. I want to keep you right here where I can see you, and not think about anything else.”
His mouth curves into a sweet smile. “So I did something right?”
“You did a lot right,” I correct. “You listened, you trusted, you let me take what I needed, and you let me take care of you after. That’s a lot. I’m proud of you.”
He presses his lips together hard, and lets out a shaky exhale, then leans forward, resting his forehead briefly against my chest.
I wrap an arm around his shoulders and hold him there, my hand splayed between his shoulder blades. His body is warm and heavy against me; not in the sexual way from earlier, but in that boneless, post-drop way that says he’s finally starting to feel safe enough to crash properly.
My chest does that tight, painful thing again. I pull back, then swipe my thumb across his cheek one more time. A tiny smile ghosts across his face, then he bites his bottom lip before looking me in my eyes.
“You… you’ve got me, right?” His voice is softer than anything he’s used on me all night, the kind of tone I’m pretty sure he reserves for prayers and cats. “Like… you really have me. You’re not just saying that because I’m… fuzzy.”
My hand tightens a little on his shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’re mine, and I’m not dropping you.”
“Promise?” he presses, and there’s that tiny tremor in the word again—the one that tells me this isn’t casual. This is him asking for something he never lets himself want.
My chest twists hard. I let go of his shoulder long enough to hold out my hand between us, pinky crooked, palm relaxed: the same gesture I used on my late twin brother before… before life happened.
“Yeah,” I say. “Pinky promise.”
His eyes flick down, widening a little, and he looks genuinely thrown. Out of all the fucked up things I’ve done tonight, this is the one that short-circuits him. Then, his lips curve, small and disbelieving and stupidly fond, and he lifts his own hand, hooking his pinky around mine.
“You’re ridiculous,” he whispers.
“Still binding,” I say. “Too late to back out now, Little Sin.”
A quiet laugh shakes out of him, and I feel it where our hands are linked. He squeezes my pinky once, like he’s sealing it, then brings our joined hands closer to his chest, as if he’s afraid I’ll pull away first.
“Okay,” he says, a little breathless. “Then I’m yours.”
“You’ve been mine,” I remind him, giving his pinky a final squeeze before untangling our hands and nudging the plate back toward him. “Now eat, so my good boy doesn’t crash on me.”
He picks up the fork again, cheeks still pink, and takes another bite, eyes dropping to his food—but that soft, lingering smile stays right where it is.
Brendon
Iwakeupwaitingtohate myself.
That is the first clear thought in my head when my eyes crack open, and the ceiling comes into view.
For a minute I just lie there, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, waiting for shame to hit me the way it always does after I do anything even remotely stupid. Because if there was ever a night that should’ve triggered it, it’s the one where I drove out to a serial killer’s cottage and begged him to take his bloodlust out on me.
I wait for the disgust or the nausea. For the mental slideshow where every sermon I’ve ever heard about perversion, sin, and lust plays on fast-forward in my head, and I’m left lying here, wanting to crawl out of my own skin.
It doesn’t come.
I throw an arm over my eyes, because apparently my brain has decided that if the drop isn’t going to show up on schedule, it’s going to replay things in 4K instead. I hear my own voice in myhead, ruined and breathless and unrecognizable as mine, saying that stupid word like I was born to
Daddy.
Never would have thought watching pornoncewould have that word stick with me. I should be full-body cringing into the mattress. Instead, all I feel is… warm, and satisfied in a way I have never felt in my entire life.
