Page 74 of Corrupt

Me. Razor. East End thug. Making love.

“Don’t wanna get back to thwack, thwack, grunt, then?” He rummaged through drawers, pulled out cutlery, grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge to tuck under his arm, then sauntered over with the takeaway bag dangling from his fingers.

He climbed back onto the bed, dumped everything onto my chest like I was a tray table, and smirked.

I shifted upright, pushing sweaty hair off my forehead. “Not right now. I’m grunted out.” I peeked into the bag to see the Greek delights inside. Looked like a mixed gyros platter. Chips. Pita bread. Meat strips. Everything I needed right then. “I’ll get back to thwacks and grunting later.”

He chuckled and nuzzled into the side of my neck. “Promises.”

Then he sat back against the wall, completely naked, faint sheen of dried sweat over his skin, and pulled a polystyrene box into his lap as if this was the most normal routine in the world.

I’d eaten takeaway in bed before. Cold, too. But never like this, slobbing around in the sheets we’d just wrecked, filthy and spent and utterly at ease. It felt impossibly tender. Domestic in a way that lodged itself under my ribs. To lie here with him, refuelling after the most devastating sex of my life, laughing, teasing, touching… it felt—

Dangerous, yeah.

He was right about that.

But also…

God. Wonderful.

I tucked into the food, lying on my side propped up on one elbow while he sat against the wall, bare chest rising and falling, dipping cold chips into tzatziki and batting my hand away whenever I reached for anything he was currently hoarding. The warmth in my limbs was fading. That hazy buzz turning soft at the edges. And I could see it happening to him too. The slow slide into the comedown, that quiet where thoughts crept back in.

I popped a piece of chicken into my mouth. “Can I ask you something?”

He didn’t look up. “If you have to.”

“Have you… ever done your own drugs?”

He ripped a chunk of pita, dragged it through tzatziki. “Not how you were asking.”

“But you’ve taken drugs before.”

Razor barked a laugh mid-chew. “Tristan, I’m a dealer.”

The way he used my full name made my stomach flutter. Ridiculous, considering the context. Criminal words wrapped around what sounded almost… fond.

“Yeah, but you said you don’t take your own stash.”

“I don’t. Not often.”

“But you’ve dabbled?”

He snorted. “I’ve done coke. Who hasn’t? Had Mandy a couple times. Smoke a bit of weed now and then.” He turned his gaze on me. “I also ain’t stupid. I see what this shit does to people. Get hooked while working for the Firm? That’s a death wish.”

He wasn’t bragging. Just stating it plainly.

He shoved a handful of chips into his mouth, swallowed. “So yeah. I’ve taken stuff. Course I have. Just not… to hide from anything. Or to forget shit. That’s when it fucks you up.” He paused, eyes cutting to me and I had to look away because that was exactly why I’d asked him to do that with me. To forget. “But if you’re asking whether I’ve ever used it to… y’know. For sex?” Another shrug, but this one felt heavier. “No. I ain’t.”

The words hit me harder than they should have. Not because they were romantic. But because they were Razor. Blunt and simple and quietly devastating. He didn’t dress it up. Nor try to impress me. Just gave me a piece of truth he probably didn’t realise he was giving, and suddenly the room felt warmer again.

Razor, leant back against the wall with his hands folded over his stomach, legs outstretched and ankles crossed, looking almost—God help me—content.

Then, casually, “You?”

I snorted under my breath, dipped a chip into tzatziki. “No.”

He didn’t let it go. “Not even with your ex?”