Chapter 17 #3
“Fuck,” I say softly, possession spiking through me. I lean in, brushing my mouth over his jaw, feeling it clench. “I think that if my jealous little sin wants to be reminded where I go after practice, I should make that very fucking clear.”
I kiss him deep and thorough and filthy enough that by the time I pull away he’s breathing in broken little drags and his face is flushed all the way to his ears.
I let him squirm for a second, then shift my hands to his waist and slide my thumbs under the hem of his sweater, skin warm and soft under my fingers.
“Next question,” I say. “How’s your head?”
He blinks, still dazed from the kiss. “My… what?”
“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.
I cross the short distance to the kitchen, and set him down on the edge of the island, hands steady on his waist until I’m sure he’s not going to wobble off in shock.
He blinks, looking around like he’s never seen this countertop before. “You like putting me on furniture,” he mutters.
“It’s a good height,” I say. “I like my things where I can see them.”
His gaze flicks down to the countertop, then back up. “Should I be concerned about the history here?”
I huff a laugh. “You want the truth?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I always want the truth.”
I step between his knees, palms sliding up the fronts of his thighs to rest on his hips, and look up at him. He looks out of place and exactly right, more alive than anyone else who’s ever sat here.
“I’ve prepped bodies here: cleaned blades, bagged evidence, and sorted clothes from kills.
There was a guy last year who tried to blackmail one of the linebackers; his blood dried in that corner before I scrubbed it.
” I nod toward the far edge, where the wood still has a slightly darker stain no amount of bleach will fix.
He swallows hard, fingers curling against the edge of the island. “That’s… reassuring,” he mutters, because he can’t help himself.
“I’ve fucked on this counter,” I add, because honesty is on theme. “More than once. It’s been an altar to a lot of bad decisions.”
His chest rises faster, jealousy and arousal and horror twisting together in his eyes. “You’re really selling this surface. Do you have a point, or are you just trying to make me never want to eat here again?”
My hands slide up to his ribs again, thumbs brushing back under the hem of his sweater, feeling the heat of his skin.
“The point is, this counter has seen some shit, Little Sin.” I turn my smile softer, some of that stupid locker-room grin sneaking back in around the edges. “But out of every fucked-up thing I’ve done on this piece of wood, you sitting on it like this is my favorite. Nothing comes close.”
He swallows, throat working, fingers reaching automatically for my shoulders again. “You’re going to ruin me, Dominic Volkov,” he says.
My kitchen has seen a lot of darkness. A lot of violence. A lot of sin. Right now, with him sitting on my island, eyes wide, and trusting, and defiant all at once, it feels more dangerous than any of that.
And I’m fucked, because I don’t want it to stop.