Page 16 of His To Erase

His thigh slides between mine, pressing up, pinning me to the wall as his mouth descends—hovering, grazing my throat, his breath teasing every inch like he’s already claimed it.

“You like this,” he says against my skin. “This game. Lying to me.”

“I don’t—”

I do.

He nips the underside of my jaw, enough to make me gasp. His hands lock on my hips, grinding me against his thigh with just enough pressure to make my brain short out.

“You do,” he growls. “And if I pushed my fingers inside you right now, you’d be dripping, wouldn’t you?”

He drags his nose along my cheek like he’s savoring me, then presses his mouth to the shell of my ear.

“Say it.”

“I’m not—”

“Say it.”

My hands curl into his hoodie. I want to shove him away, but I also want to pull him closer. Fuck. I don’t know what I want because my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders right now. It’s obvious what my body wants, though.

I don’t say anything, because his thigh presses harder, and his mouth trails lower, while his hand grips the back of my neck like he owns me.

“You can keep lying to yourself, Luna,” he breathes, dragging the name out like a sin, “but your body says otherwise.”

His lips crush mine, punishing and filthy and hot enough to make my knees give out. And I kiss him back like I’m starving.

Just when I start to lose myself in it, he pulls away, like he knew the exact second to leave me breathless.

Motherfucker.

I scoff, turning my back on him before I do something stupid like ask for more. Or climb him like a tree.

“You’re not going to invite me in?”

I glance over my shoulder, hoping my glare is sharp enough to cut glass. “Try breaking into my place and I’ll show you how friendly I can be with a kitchen knife.”

That mouth twitches again. “Noted.”

He just stands there, watching me like he knows just how badly my body wants to invite him in.

“I’m going inside now,” I say—more for my own benefit than his. Maybe if I say it out loud, I won’t hesitate.

I turn the corner behind the building, each step echoing louder than the last. My pulse hasn’t slowed, it’s still thudding somewhere between my throat and my ribs, quick and uneven. I tell myself it’s adrenaline, or maybe just nerves.

I glance over my shoulder, but he’s not there.

The space feels colder without him in it, which is insane. The man’s basically a walking threat in a hoodie, but there’s a weird comfort in knowing exactly where he is—even if it’s two feet behind you with a smirk and a comment that makes your skin flush and crawl at the same time.

I expected him to be there. Leaning against the lamppost. Waiting for me to change my mind. But the shadows are empty and the street’s deserted.

Good.

Because I might’ve murdered him if he caught me sneaking past my fake address like a damn raccoon at midnight.

I cut through the alley, making a sharp turn toward the next building over—my building.

The real one. Still a dump, just with a slightly less dramatic porch light.

My feet are moving faster than I want to admit, boots hitting the pavement with the kind of urgency I refuse to name.

Not panic, obviously. Just…practical fear.

God, I’m a disaster.

By the time I make it through the stairwell, my hand trembles against the railing and I have to tell myself it’s the cold. Not the high voltage of adrenaline and hormones still coursing through my veins.

It certainly has nothing to do with the tattooed God of a man that seems to be lurking everywhere.

I don’t stop until I’m inside my apartment—deadbolt turned, and every lock engaged like it’s some kind of holy ritual. Only then do I let myself breathe. I let my back hit the door with a soft thud, like maybe that’ll keep him out of my head too.

At least I can cling to one win tonight.

He bought it. I think.

Maybe I should’ve gone into theater instead of hiding from the wreckage of my own life and calling it survival.

The air inside is still and stale, but I don’t move. Not right away. I just stand there, letting the silence settle over me like dust.

I’m so tired. Not just physically, but in that bone-deep, soul-frayed kind of way. The kind of tired that wraps around your spine and whispers that you’ll never actually be safe.

I glance at my phone, tempted to call Sarah and tell her I survived another round of emotional whiplash, maybe send her a selfie with the caption “Still hot, still haunted.”

She’d text back something like “Main character shit,” and I’d pretend it helped.

But I don’t, because if I do, I’ll unravel. And right now, I need to stay upright.

I drag myself toward the kitchen, flipping on the light—only to remember it still doesn’t work.

The bulb blew yesterday. I meant to fix it, then got distracted by trauma and a stranger with God-tier cheekbones.

Figures.

The fridge groans when I pull it open, the dim yellow bulb inside flickering weakly like even it’s tired of my bullshit.

There’s half a bottle of cheap wine, and a container of takeout I’m not brave enough to open. But there’s also a sleeve of cookies, two eggs, and a pack of shredded cheese. I sigh and shut the door again.

Good thing I’m not hungry.

I bend over taking off my boots, and they hit the floor near the door with a dull thud.

I toss my keys onto the counter and peel off my jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair I never sit in.

The apartment’s still freezing, but I’m sweating.

Nerves are weird like that—twisting your body into knots while your brain plays games with things that haven’t even happened yet.

I cross the room and flop onto the couch, and it groans beneath me like it’s just as tired as I am.

I still can’t relax. I press my fingertips to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. God, what the hell is wrong with me?

I don’t even know his name. And yet, I can feel his voice in my bloodstream like a drug I didn’t mean to take.

“You’re not going to invite me in?”

Fuck off, is what I should’ve said. Go ruin someone else’s night.

But of course, I didn’t, because part of me wanted to let him in, but that’s the part I don’t trust.

The thought barely settles before I reach for my phone with fingers that feel too shaky to pretend anymore. My chest’s too tight, and I don’t even wait to second-guess it this time.

I scroll until I find her name, which isn’t hard because she’s the only person on my favorites list.

It rings twice before she answers.

“Ani Banani. Please tell me you’re calling to say you finally got laid.”

I groan. “Sarah—”

“That’s not a no.”

I can hear her sheets rustling, her smile practically audible.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mutter, my voice cracking around the edges.

Sarah sobers a little. “Okay, talk to me. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I let him walk me home.”

A pause. Then, sharper. “Him him?”

“The tattooed one,” I admit. “Library ladder. Mouth of sin. Probably has a body count.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ani. Tell me you at least climbed him like a jungle gym before running.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No climbing. Just tension. A lot of staring. And a deeply questionable need for an orgasm the second I shut my door.”

Sarah hums like she’s taste-testing a dessert. “That’s foreplay, sweetheart. Your brain just hasn’t caught up yet.”

I sink lower into the couch. “I pretended to go into someone else’s apartment so he wouldn’t know which door was mine.”

“…but you wanted him to know, didn’t you?”

I exhale. “Yeah. And that’s what scares me. Because I don’t trust the part of me that wanted him to come in, obviously.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Ani. That part of you is called your clit, and she’s been through some shit. Let her have something nice.”

I laugh, half-hysterical. “I don’t even know his name.”

She gasps like it’s a turn-on. “Even hotter. Anonymous dick with a potential criminal record? That’s vintage you.”

“Oh my God.”

“You love a good red flag,” she continues. “And baby, this one sounds like he’d fuck you up against a bookshelf and then read you poetry after.”

I let my head drop back with a dull thud. “What about Frank?”

She snorts. “Ew. What about him?”

“I don’t know. He’s…” I trail off. “Present. Sometimes.”

“Present like a ghost haunting your uterus?”

“Sarah.”

“No, really. Are we emotionally attached to Frank or just too tired to delete his contact?”

I sigh. “I think it’s guilt. Or history. Or trauma. Pick your poison.”

She softens. “Okay. That’s valid. But maybe don’t chain yourself to a memory just because it showed up in a nice suit.”

I go quiet, and she fills the silence. “Listen, I’m not saying Tattoo Man is The One. But if he makes you feel something other than dread and dry heaving? Babe, you owe it to your vagina to explore that vibe.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me. Now go eat something carby, masturbate to the memory of his mouth, and maybe—just maybe—text him something wildly inappropriate later.”

I smile, despite myself. “Thanks.”

“Always,” she says. “Now go give that pussy the attention it deserves.”

“I’ll text you if anything happens.”

“Good. And I mean anything, okay? Don’t go all silent-film tragic heroine on me.”

“Fine. I’ll let you know if the world ends. Or if someone tries to marry me.”

“Or if you get dicked into oblivion by Tall, Dark, and Dangerous. That counts too.”

I snort. “Hot strangers, emotional sabotage, dick with consequences. Got it.”

“Exactly,” she says. “You know. Tuesday.”

I laugh, curling under the blanket. “Noted.”