Page 73 of Dirty Hit
“Your head,” I repeat. “The part that usually eats you alive. Drop hit yet?”
He looks down at his hands, flexes them once, then lifts his gaze back to mine. “No. I kept waiting for it. For the… shame tornado. It didn’t show up.”
“Good. That’s the aftercare working.”
He snorts. “You’re really proud of that, huh?”
“Fuck yeah, I am,” I say. “You didn’t spiral; you came to see me instead. But why didn’t you wait for me after practice?”
He blinks, startled. “I… didn’t want to… crowd you,” he says. “You looked busy with your team. That’s… your world.”
“You were in it every time I looked up,” I say. “You think I wouldn’t have walked over if you’d stayed?”
He bites his lip. “You’re not supposed to,” he says. “We’re not—people shouldn’t see—”
“Relax,” I say. “I’m not about to fuck you on the fifty-yard line.” I let one hand slide higher under his sweater, the other drifting down to grip the back of his thigh, pulling him tighter against me. He makes a soft, involuntary sound, fingers tightening on my shoulders. “Although the mental image is nice.”
“Dom,” he warns, or tries to.
“Answer some questions for me, and I’ll behave,” I lie. “Mostly.”
He narrows his eyes. “That sounds fake.”
“Too bad,” I say. “What were you thinking, watching me at practice? And I don’t mean the jealousy thing.”
He exhales, temptation to lie written all over his face. Subspace is a memory now; he’s clear-headed, but the way he’s sitting makes it easy for his body to override his brain.
“I thought…” He looks down between us, then back up, hating himself for being honest. “I thought if the Devil looks like that, I don’t stand a chance.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, low and delighted. “That so? I’m your Devil now?”
“You’ve always been,” he mutters. “I just… finally admitted it.”
I let that sit, then slide my hands lower again, palms spanning his hips. “You like watching me?” I ask.
He swallows. “Yes.”
“You like knowing everyone else sees this image and thinks it’s all there is, and you’re the only one who knows what I sound like when I’m not on that field?”
His eyes flick to my mouth, heat pooling there. “You’re addictive, you know,” he mutters with an annoyed edge to his tone.
“Right back at you, Little Sin,” I say. “You’re in my head like a bad song.”
He laughs once, quietly. “Terrible analogy.”
“It works,” I say. “You’re stuck either way.”
We sit like that, the world shrinking down to the steady weight of him on me, but the need to move him and put him exactly where I want him spikes too high to ignore. In one smooth motion, I plant my feet, wrap my arms around his back and under his thighs, and stand.
He yelps, hands flying around my neck, legs tightening instinctively at my sides. “Dom!”
“Relax,” I say, amusement curling at the edges of my voice as I adjust my grip and start walking toward the kitchen. “I’ve got you. You’re not that heavy.”
“I can walk,” he protests, breathless, but he doesn’t exactly scramble to get down.
“Yeah,” I say. “And I can carry you, so I’m going to. Shut up and hold on while I rehome you.”
His chest is pressed to mine, breath warm against my neck, his fingers locked in the back of my shirt. It’s stupid how right it feels—the way his weight sits against me, like some puzzle piece I didn’t know I was missing because I was too busy building weapons.
