Page 85 of Dirty Hit
Ipacethelivingroomlike a fucking caged animal while the wall clock drags its hands toward eight—every sweep of the second hand tightening the coil in my gut, because I know exactly what Brendon’s doing.
He thinks tonight is another tutoring session, the same stilted back-and-forth we’ve danced through all month. Good boy that he is, he also never comes over without the faint scent of antiseptic on his hands. Brendon Lane always makes damn sure he’s clean for me. He admitted as much the other night.
The little fucker thinks he can control the pace, but I’m done letting him drive. If he’s going to warm himself up for me, I might as well supervise. Guide those trembling hands. Make sure he’s open enough that I don’t damn well shred him when I finally give him everything he keeps begging for.
Tonight, I’m tuning every string of him, until the only sound he can play is my name punched out on a broken moan.
The house smells like leather and the cedar candle I lit twenty minutes ago. I figure if I’m about to ruin him, I might as wellcorrupt every sense he’s got. I drop onto the couch and pull the laces of my gray sweats a little looser, because I want him thinking about how little effort it would take me to shove them down.
I don’t rush to answer when he knocks; anticipation is a weapon. When I do open the door, I keep my frame in the gap, leaning one forearm against the jamb and letting him look his fill. He tries for composure, but his gaze drops to my abdomen.
He’s wearing charcoal slacks that ride a little too tight over his ass—and fuck me, I know he did that on purpose. The navy button-down is tucked so neat it’s almost prim, but his collar’s open two buttons, showing the fine chain with his little silver cross. The one I teased between my teeth last week until he gasped my name.
“Evening, Little Sin,” I drawl, stepping back so he can come inside. The nickname lands like a slap and a kiss all at once; his pupils blow so wide I almost fucking grin.
He murmurs a polite greeting that would fool anyone who doesn’t know how his hands shake when he’s turned on. “You said we needed to review the poli-sci outline.”
I strip the satchel from his shoulder and let it thud to the floor. “Later.” I hook a finger under the neckline of his shirt, and tug him close enough that our chests align and he can feel that I’m already half-hard under the sweats.
“We should at least cover chapter six—”
“Chapter six will still be there tomorrow.”
My hand slides to the back of his neck, thumb stroking the soft hair at his nape while I walk him toward the bedroom. He follows with that tight, nervous posture that makes every instinct in me snap.
The lights are already dimmed; charcoal sheets turned down. A bottle of silicone lube, black nitrile gloves, a rolled hand towel, and an onyx bead rosary wait on the nightstand—each tool laidout like surgical instruments. Brendon spots them and sucks a breath through his teeth.
I step behind him, gripping his hips, pressing him to my chest. “You stretched before you came, didn’t you?” I murmur against the shell of his ear.
“Y-yes,” he whispers, shame and pride braided tight.
“That’s fucking hot, baby. You, lying in that twin bed, spreading your legs and working yourself open because you know I like it easy. Fuck.” I cup his cock through the wool with my palm, feeling how brutally hard he is already. “Did you get yourself off, or did you keep it aching for me?”
His voice breaks. “I…kept it.”
I squeeze until he whines. “That’s why you’re my favorite sin: you loosened up, but stayed empty. Perfect.”
I unzip him at a crawl, then shove his slacks and briefs down far enough to free him. His cock bobs, flushed, leaking, so I smear the wetness down his shaft.
“Dominic—”
“Step out,” I tell him. Pants, underwear, socks; gone. He stands with his shirt still on—sleeves rolled, lower half naked, thighs tense. I guide him forward by the cock until he’s up on the mattress, then pick up the rosary.
Black onyx beads glint under the lamp, the crucifix cool against my palm. Brendon’s eyes are huge.
“Color?” I ask, because consent is a ritual I never skip.
“Green,” he answers, shaky but sure.
I loop the beads right beneath the crown of his cock, cinching tight enough to make him hiss. One coil after another winds down his length, edging him in polished stone and inherited guilt, until the crucifix lies heavy against the thickest part of him. A tiny tug has the metal kissing sensitive skin, and his breath stutters.
“Good. Knees apart, elbows down, ass up.” My tone isn’t cruel, it’s pure fucking heat. I slide two fingers down the seam of his cleft and find the slick evidence of his earlier prep.
Then I see the fucking plug: matte black, silicone, snug, though not as large as I’d like. But that’s a good thing, because I want to be the one to train his hole.
I run my thumb along the seam again, then press lightly on the base. “You warmed yourself for me? Sweet Little Sin.”
He gasps. “Yes, Daddy.”
