Page 10 of His To Erase

His voice is pure arrogance.

I turn back to the shelf and shove a book into place with more force than any book should have to be put through.

“That depends. You planning on pissing me off?”

He hums, stepping closer. His presence wraps around me, consuming me, like heat and danger and something I shouldn’t want but definitely do.

He lowers his voice, dipping his head slightly. “Seems like someone already beat me to it.”

I stiffen, trying not to look at him or react.

"You think you know me now?" I ask, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

He doesn’t answer right away—just watches me with those dark, unreadable eyes like he’s trying to decide how hard he wants to push.

"Didn’t take you for the type to be tied down."

My body reacts before my brain catches up. Every nerve goes electric—like I just walked into a war zone with no armor and a target painted on my chest.

And my pussy? A fucking traitor. She’s throbbing with all the things I’m picturing and shouldn’t be. Like exactly how it would feel being tied down for this man.

But also—How. Dare. He.

I turn my head just enough to glare at him.

"Excuse me?"

His mouth curves, like he can already feel the fire in my blood, and he knows exactly where my mind went. His dark eyes flicker down—just for a second, but enough to call me out without a single word.

Then, with that maddening, smug amusement curling in his voice, he says,

"Not what I meant, dear."

He tilts his head slightly—like a predator enjoying the squirm.

"A boyfriend... who pissed you off?" A pause. “Or just left you needing to put your hands on something?”

He lets it hang a little too long. Then adds, low and unbothered—“Hard.”

I blink.

It takes a full second for my brain to switch tracks, to process what he’s really asking, and when I do, annoyance flares.

I huff a breath, slamming another book onto the shelf beside me. "No. No boyfriend. Not now, not ever."

His brow lifts. "Tell me how you really feel?"

I smirk, crossing my arms, refusing to let him pull me under his spell again. "I’m not exactly the commitment type."

His smile widens, as if he’s just heard something deeply amusing. "I don’t believe that for a second."

I scoff, grabbing another book, and shoving it into place like it personally offended me.

"Not my problem."

“Mm.”

He leans against the shelf beside me, arms still in his pockets—But there’s nothing casual about the way he watches me.

"What’s your type, then?"

"You mean besides not you?"

His eyes gleam, dark and unreadable.

"Careful, sweetheart."

There’s something in his tone that tightens the air—like the moment before a storm. I should shut up and be smart. Instead, I smile—because apparently, I want to get wrecked today.

"Why?" I tilt my head, all sweet venom. "Scared I’ll hurt your feelings?"

The second the words leave my mouth, his energy shifts, and something darker slips in under the surface.

He moves.

Fast.

I take a step back without thinking—only for the bookshelf to stop me cold as solid wood hits my spine.

What I should do and what I actually do, are two wildly different things I’ll shame-spiral about later.

He shifts closer, enough that I have to tilt my chin up to keep our eyes locked. To hold my ground.

"You like playing with fire, I see?"

The words are a dark murmur slipping under my skin like smoke. Stoking something hot and reckless. Soaking me in seconds.

A rational person would be careful here, and choose their words wisely, then back away.

Not me.

I blame it on the mood I woke up in, on the lack of sleep, or on the way his voice slides between my legs like a sin I’ll confess to later.

I smirk, letting my gaze drag over the sharp line of his jaw, those dark eyes, and the mouth that’s probably ruined women for life.

Instead, I feed the fire.

"You think you’re the fire?"My voice is all syrup and venom. "That’s cute."

His eyes darken and my pulse stutters. Before I can breathe, his fingers grip my chin with just enough pressure to send a violent, traitorous shiver ripping down my spine.

And just like that—I’m fucking gone.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for looking like that and standing there like he already owns me. Like he knows exactly how bad I want him, and how hard I’m fighting not to show it.

My jaw tightens and I grit my teeth, clinging to the last threads of control, trying to force down the heat pooling between my legs, and the need crawling up my spine like a live wire.

I know he sees it by the smirk that deepens, turning dark.

The space between us vanishes like it was never there. His mouth crashes onto mine but it’s not a kiss—it’s a goddamn wildfire. His fingers twist into my hair, yanking just hard enough to make me gasp—and he swallows it like it’s his fucking favorite sound.

Then he pulls back, just enough to breathe against my lips.

“Wonder if he knows how easy you break.”

The words scrape at something raw inside me. I should ask what the hell that means. Who he’s talking about, but I don’t.

I don’t even pull away. Instead, I kiss him back—hard and desperate.

Whatever it meant—I don’t care. Not right now.

The voice of reason tries to surface with all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Every red flag, every line he’s already crossed. But I shove that voice way down. Right next to the one that said I shouldn’t let him touch me in the first place.

His hands slide down, gripping my thighs—and suddenly, I’m airborne. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me on a nearby rolling ladder I didn’t even notice. Pinning me there with the full weight of his body, the scent of him wraps around me like smoke and heat and destruction.

Who the fuck is this man?

Heat coils low in my stomach. My fingers dig into his shoulders as soon as he starts to roll me down the aisle like we’re on rails to hell—right into the far corner, deep in the shadows.

I expect him to keep kissing me and finish what he started. I want him to press his mouth to mine until we both forget our names, but he doesn’t.

"Climb."

I blink. "What? No."

His fingers tighten against my thighs—tight enough to warn me that he’s serious.

"You heard me."

I really should remind him I don’t follow orders—especially from men who wear control like cologne. But I don’t. Because apparently, my body didn't get the memo. It's already leaning into him.

My jaw clenches as defiance coils tight in my gut like barbed wire.

Fine. I’ll climb, but not how he wants me to.

I smile, and keep my front to him as I take the first step. Then another. Slow, and deliberate enough to taunt.

If he thought I was going to give him the satisfaction of watching me obey—he can choke on it.

I feel his hands, sliding beneath my skirt as his fingertips ghost up my thighs. It’s so light it’s almost cruel.

My breath catches as heat lashes through me, sharp and twisted and impossible to ignore.

God, I hate this, or maybe I just hate how much I don’t. Because I still don’t stop him or tell him no.

“Turn around.”

His eyes lock on mine like they never left and everything in me goes still.

I grip the ladder tighter, and for lord knows what reason, I do.

Slowly.

His gaze drags over me, and for the briefest moment something dark flickers there, something thrumming with amusement.

"You like taking orders, don’t you?"

His voice is silk-wrapped sin. I force a laugh—but it’s breathless and weak. And it’s a betrayal I can't hide.

"You wish."

His grip tightens on my hips enough to remind me I’m not in control anymore.

When his mouth brushes the inside of my thigh, just under the hem of my skirt, it melts my ability to think.

A sharp sound rips from my throat, caught between a gasp and a warning I’ll never say out loud.

My fingers claw at the ladder, my nails are scraping metal like I’m trying to anchor myself to anything but him.

"You sure?"

That voice—It’s a fucking dare dressed as a question. I want to say no, I want to roll my eyes and tell him to fuck off, shoving his smug mouth back where it came from.

But my body has other plans because I’m soaked and throbbing. Everything in me is surrendering without permission.

I know he knows too, because I feel it in the slow curve of his mouth against my skin. In the way he doesn’t even bother looking up before his teeth scrape me again, only harder this time.

A growl bursts low in my throat.

God, I hate him.

I hate that I’m letting this happen, and that I’m wet for this man I don’t even know. I haven’t had a man touch me like this in… God, I don’t even know how long.

Every cell in my body is screaming yes while my pride dies a quiet, painful death. But I still don’t stop him.

And he doesn’t wait.

His fingers hook the side of my panties—dragging them aside slowly. He wants me to feel every second of it.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

The words come out sharper than I expect. A last-ditch flare of pride.

His mouth brushes higher, and his lips are maddeningly close to where I’m already dripping for him.

Then he says, dark and commanding. "Hold still, and be quiet."

The first slow drag across my slit sends a jolt through my entire body, my legs threatening to give out where I stand.

A strangled sound tears from my throat before I can even try to hold it in. It’s pathetic, and it echoes louder than it should in the empty library.

God, I hope no one’s over here. And more importantly what the fuck am I doing?

He groans against me. Groans. Like he’s been starved for this and I’m his reward.

My thighs twitch, and I can feel the ladder digging into my palms the tighter I hold on, every muscle in my body is pulled tight.

It feels so fucking good, yet nowhere near enough.

My mind scrambles for something to focus on. The books. The chill in the air. The flickering overhead light. Anything but the way his tongue just circled my clit like he knew exactly what would make my knees go weak.

I can feel the slow, filthy flick of his tongue tasting the exact moment I lose every ounce of self control.