Page 76 of Dirty Hit
Real.
Mine.
And not wearing anything under the shirt. Fuck.
He doesn’t say anything as I shift him so he’s straddling my thighs. His cheeks are flushed, his breath shallow, but he’s not panicking; not like the first time. That’s how I know we’ve turned a corner.
He’s not afraid of wanting anymore, just afraid of what it means.
I bury my face in his neck and breathe him in, the scent of my shampoo in his hair, the feel of his skin still freshly clean. Then I pull back, brush his hair away from his face and look at him.
This sweet, innocent boy I’ve corrupted so much in such a short space of time that he’s crawling on the floor for me. Fuck, what is it about him that drives me so goddamn crazy?
“Give me your mouth, baby.”
He kisses like he’s been holding back for hours, and now that my mouth is on his, he’s taking everything he’s been pretending he didn’t want. I know I should keep this slow, butfuck, the second Brendon kisses me with that desperate little sound he tries to swallow, I lose the thread completely.
I grab his hips again, pull him closer until his chest presses flush with mine, and I feel the way his breath stutters. I deepen the kiss, licking into his mouth, tasting him slowly, letting him feel the heat I’ve been holding back since I walked in.
And he lets me take it—lets me tilt his head, lets me lick into the soft corners, lets me suck on his tongue—until he’s panting against me, trembling under my hands like he needs this more than air.
I don’t let go of him, even as the exhaustion drags at my spine, and the dull throbbing in my shoulder reminds me I took three sacks in the third quarter and played through the pain.
Because he’shere. He chose to come to me; he’s wearing my shirt with nothing underneath, kneeling for me, using my key, choosing this over his own upbringing.
So, yeah. I’m sore, wrecked, bruised head to toe, and my body’s screaming for sleep. But none of that matters, because my Little Sin is in my lap, warm and pliant and soft in all the ways that fuck with me.
I hook one arm beneath Brendon’s knees, the other around his back, and stand—slow enough that the muscles in my thighs protest, but steady, so he feels the promise in every inch of lift.
He clutches my shoulders on reflex, eyes wide, lips parted like he’s about to apologize for weighing nothing. I don’t give him the chance.
I carry him through the living room into the kitchen, and set him on the edge of the oak counter, palms sliding down the backs of his thighs to keep him steady.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him, voice rough from the drive and the win and the hours of wanting that came after.
Brendon blinks, then glances at the dark window over the sink like he’s wondering if he should offer to cook. “I can…um…heat something up. There’s leftover—”
“Not that kind of hungry.” I squeeze his thighs once, a warning and a reassurance in the same touch. “Turn around, Little Sin.”
Color rushes up his neck, but he obeys. He pivots on the counter until his chest meets the smooth wood, arms folding under his cheek, back arched just enough that the shirt rides up and bares the curve of his ass.
I savor the way he shivers when the air brushes places only I touch. I slap his ass, watching that bubble butt jiggle, and a growl slips out of me. He’s already hard and leaking, hole pulsing when I spread him with both hands, and drag my tongue over that tight ring of muscle. The sound he makes is nothing short of obscene—high, desperate, grateful.
He writhes, fingers clawing at the countertop, voice breaking as he starts to beg for more. I flatten my tongue and eat him properly, tasting musk, soap, and the salt of his skin until he’s shaking so hard the dishes rattle in the cupboards.
“Daddy… need your cock… Please…”
“You’re gonna take what I give you, and nothing more,” I say, when he grinds back against my mouth.
He whimpers, but he stops trying to grind, stops trying to steal friction that doesn’t belong to him yet. I kiss the curve of one cheek, bite the fleshy swell hard enough to leave teeth marks, and then watch the red bloom beneath my imprint.
“My pathetic little toy. Look at you,” I murmur, licking the sting away. I clamp a hand around the base of his cock and squeeze, a wounded sound catching in his chest.
“I’m ready… I’ll be good, I swear… let me—”
“Not yet,” I murmur against him when his pleas turn frantic, and palm the meat of his ass. “You’ll know when I’m ready to fuck you, Little Sin. You won’t need to beg.”
He shakes his head and makes a crackling, desperate sound, caught between a sob and a moan. “Can take it—”
