Page 111 of His To Erase

She sat on my counter in nothing but my shirt and an attitude, with her chin tilted up like she hadn’t just been bleeding in the street. Still talking shit. Still challenging me like she didn’t owe me her life.Literally.And then she left.

No goodbye. Not even an ounce of hesitation.

Good.

That’s exactly how I wanted it to feel. Temporary and replaceable.So why the fuck am I pissed?

What’s funny is, she really thought she could order a ride and slip out the door like she wasn’t still wearing my shirt, smelling like me, and leaking cum all over her thighs.

Like I wouldn’t notice.

I canceled her ride the second it popped up and replaced it with my own. The driver’s one of mine—been with me for years. The car was already outside the gate before she even opened the app.

She thinks she’s clever, that I don’t see through the sharp tongue and that fake indifference. But I do. I see everything.

I see the way she fidgets when she’s pretending to be still. The way her mouth tightens a split second before she lies. The way she flinches when someone touches her for too long, but doesn’t flinch at all when it’s me. I want so badly to dick her down within an inch of her life.

She doesn’t even realize she tells me everything without saying a word. And that makes me fucking insane.

She walks around like she’s untouchable—when every step begs to be challenged. She was built to be bent, broken, and used. She pretends she’s addicted to freedom, but the second someone grabs her by the throat and tells her to get on her knees, I’d bet every dollar I have she’d obey like it was instinct. And she’d love it.

Hell, she’d fucking thank you for it, then lie through her teeth and call it control. She plays the part too well. She knows exactly what she’s doing—every movement, every glance, is designed to distract and to disarm.

I almost admire it.

Not many people are that self-aware. She clearly knows how to tilt her head just enough to bait a man without looking desperate. She knows to drop her voice when she’s hiding something, and I’m not falling for that bullshit.

I happen to be in her area on business today, not the kind I talk about and not the kind that leaves paper trails. It’s usually the kind that ends with someone bleeding or begging—or both. I’m wrapping up when the ping hits my phone.

She’s home.

As soon as I round the corner on her street, my eyes scan for movement, and I see a car parked out front looking out of place. The engine’s still running, so they aren’t planning on stayinglong. It’s the kind of car you don’t drive unless you’re trying to make a statement, and she’s sitting right in the passenger seat.

I slow down, narrowing my eyes as I clock the whole scene in one breath.

Her body’s angled toward him with her shoulder against the door like she’s caged. I’m sure her legs are even crossed. That dress—black and skin-tight—hugs every curve like it was sewn onto her, making my dick instantly hard. She looks hot as fuck, she also looks like she’s on defense.

He’s leaning in, and I’m close enough to know his hand is sliding up her thigh, and she fucking lets him. Her body’s stiff, but her eyes are drifting out the window, like she’s somewhere else.

Interesting.

Rage slices through me like a fucking blade. My fists clench on instinct, and my jaw is locked so goddamn tight I could grind my molars to dust. I don’t know what the fuck he said to her—and I don’t care. It’s already enough to make me want to burn this whole goddamn city to the ground.

I want to break his fucking fingers just for making her smile, whether it was real or not. I can’t breathe without wanting to shove his face into the pavement and make damn sure he never steps into her space again.

One more fucking second and I swear to God, I’ll end him.

She doesn’t kiss him back, she just sits there, and it makes me want to put a bullet through his head. That should be my cue to walk the fuck away and let her keep playing house with a man who thinks a tailored suit and a fake smile earn him ownership.

But I don’t move.

The way he touches her—it’s not affection. It’s control. It’s a performance and she’s letting it happen. She’s sitting there like she didn’t just cum on my tongue and dig her nails into my shoulders while screaming my fucking name.

It makes me want to drag her out of that car by the throat and remind her who’s been inside her head since the second I touched her.

She fucking knows exactly what kind of man he is and what a man like that is always—always—waiting to take.

And yet, she stays.