Page 53 of Chasing Kit

“All the time.” I reached for his hand. He let me take it, holding on tight. His palm was warm and soft, while mine was rough and calloused. And scarred. So fucking scarred.

He lifted our hands and touched his forehead against my torture-branded knuckles. “War,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

I smiled despite myself. “You don’t have to ask.”

His lips caught me off guard. There was no easing into it, just a sharp, hungry kiss. His mouth was hot and desperate. He climbed over the console and wedged himself onto my lap with his elbows digging into my collarbone. I almost laughed. It was so awkward and perfect and Kit—his nose cold against my cheek, hands clutching at my face like I was going to vanish if he let go.

He tasted like sour candy and something electric. His hips rolled against mine, and my pulse rocketed. I tried to slow him down, but he just ground harder, a small wrecked noise leaking from his throat.

“I need—” He was breathless. “Please, can you⁠—”

“Yeah, Kit.” I unzipped his jeans and slid my hand inside. He was already hard, cock hot and twitching in my palm. His dick was smaller than mine but a good size. And heavy.

He gasped when I stroked him, his head dropping to my shoulder.

Kit fumbled with my zipper, found me under my underwear, and squeezed. “God,” he muttered. “I missed this so much.” His hand was clumsy at first, then surer, thumb circling the head in a way I definitely didn’t teach him. But porn existed and I was thankful. Plus, he had his own cock. He knew what he liked, which meant he knew what I liked.

We jerked each other off, breaths matching, hips rolling like we were fucking, even though we were still half dressed and the seats were freezing.

It didn’t last long. He came first, biting down on my shirt while shuddering so hard I thought he’d break. I followed, unable to hold back, groaning into his neck. He panted harder, his shoulders shuddery as he leaned in closer to me. He made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded like halfway between a sob and a moan. I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay, but he moved before I could.

He grabbed a handful of tissues from the center console, wiped us both off, and then collapsed boneless into the passenger seat again. His jeans zipper was still open, his cock hanging out and against his thigh.

We just sat there as the windows fogged, our hearts still racing.

After a minute, Kit started laughing. Not his usual dry snicker, but a raw, unhinged sound. He covered his mouth, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Hey.” I put a hand on his knee. “You okay?”

“I am.” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I mean, I’m not, but . . . yeah.” He stared at the mess of tissues, then crumpled them and stuffed them in the bag with the gummies.

I zipped up and tried to make myself presentable. If he wanted to open up to me, I didn’t want my cock hanging out while he did it. “Want to talk about it?”

Kit shook his head. “Not yet. Just—can we sit here for a while?” He tucked himself away and curled up. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared out at the lake. “It’s so weird. I killed someone and I keep thinking I should feel sick or dirty, but I don’t. Not really. And that’s fucked up, right?”

I knew better than to try and fill the silence. I let it breathe while the wind rattled the side mirror.

Kit turned to me, eyes pooling with tears. “When does it hit you?”

I thought of all the corpses and of waking up with blood dried behind my ears in the middle of the night when I thought I’d washed myself clean. I remembered the panic and the scrubbing until my skin was raw. That was in the beginning, when killing was full of anxiety and guilt. I’d hardened since then, but it took a while.

“When you least want it to. Usually in the shower. Or trying to sleep,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another minute passed. Kit traced a heart in the fog on the glass. “I haven’t really talked to my dad. I know he wants to pretend nothing happened. He wants to slot it into the vault with all the other fucked-up things I didn’t know about. He asked me to pretend that he’s not a fucking crime boss of our city. But I can’t. I might never get past who he is.”

I watched the way he scratched at his knuckles until his skin turned red and worried he’d shred his flesh, but he stopped before he went too far.

“Are you going to forgive him?” I asked.

He snorted. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m angry. I think—I think I’m more angry that I’m not angrier?” He frowned, trying to untangle it. I didn’t blame him. It was a weird position to be in and then when you added Sky’s involvement, the entire situation got more convoluted. “It’s like, if I forgive him, then I’m saying what he does is okay. And it isn’t. None of it is.”

I nodded, understanding more than he realized.