Page 24 of His To Erase

Tattoo Man

Tuesday mornings are predictable. The library opens at ten, and she usually shows up by nine-thirty with her earbuds in, and her keys clutched between her fingers like a weapon.

But today, she’s late. Ten minutes. Then fifteen.

And when she finally walks in—something’s wrong.

Even from this distance I can see it. Her shoulders are curled tighter than usual.

She flinches when the return bin thuds shut, and she’s glancing over her shoulder like she’s expecting someone to be there.

It’s subtle, but I notice because I don’t just watch her—I study her.

I’ve memorized the way she moves when she’s calm, pissed off, amused, and even when she’s pretending not to care.

I know what her laugh sounds like when she thinks no one’s listening.

I know she bites her bottom lip when she’s stalling, not nervous. I know the difference.

This—this is neither.

The same girl who launched a whiskey glass at a drunk’s head last week without blinking is now clutching her bag like it’s the only thing tethering her to gravity.

Something happened.

I shift, staying in the shadow at the far end of the aisle—right where I know the cameras blur out. I know it’s a blind spot, I mapped them all weeks ago.

The tension in her limbs. The stiffness in her spine. The split-second pause when she reaches for a book and her hand trembles before she steadies it. Yeah, something for sure happened. I was busy last night, but had checked in a few times and she seemed fine.

What happened between then?

The fact that she’s trying to hide it and trying to pretend she’s fine, makes me want to grab her and demand answers. The sick part—the dark, violent part of me that I don’t let out unless I have to—wants to find out who the fuck put that look in her eyes.

If someone’s trying to take her apart, I’ll make sure they don’t live long enough to finish the job.

I should leave her the fuck alone, but I’m not going to. The moment she turns down the aisle, it’s like the air shifts.

She doesn’t see me at first—she’s too busy pretending to be busy. She has books clutched tightly in her hands, and her fingers are flexing around the covers like she’s holding onto sanity by a thread.

Her already cropped shirt rides up just enough when she stretches, revealing that infuriating strip of skin just beneath her tits, and it’s a fucking invitation that has my dick hard in seconds.

I don’t move. I just wait until she feels me. And I know the second she does. I see the way her steps slow, and her breath stutters. Her spine straightens as she turns her head. Her eyes find mine and just like that, her walls slam up. The mask she wears settles into place like a second skin.

But I already saw what was underneath. I saw the way her body reacted before her brain caught up and fuck, if that doesn’t make me want to tear that mask off with my teeth.

I close the distance, slow enough for her to feel it, and she backs up. She can’t go far—but it’s just enough to hit the end of the shelf.

I cage her in with one hand braced above her head, the other grazing her hip, and I feel her body melt into my touch.

“You always this jumpy,” I murmur, “or just when you know I’m about to ruin you?”

She glares up at me. “You’re in my way.”

“I know.”

She plants her hand against my chest, like she might shove me off—but she doesn’t. I almost laugh because it’s a boundary I could break in half with one breath.

“Are you always this cocky,” she fires back, “or just when you're creeping up on women like a damn stalker?”

She sounds like she’s on edge, but I can feel her giving up. I smirk. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel me before I touched you.”

Her jaw clenches. “I should knee you in the balls. Maybe that’ll teach you to sneak up on people.”

“You won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

My eyes drag down to where her fingers still rest against my sternum. “If you meant that, I’d already be on the floor.”

She huffs, but she doesn’t pull away. So I lean in—close enough that her breath stutters—and brush my lips against the shell of her ear, letting my voice drop to a lethal whisper.

“You smell like someone who isn’t me.”

She stiffens.

I don’t need confirmation, I already know. But I want to hear it from her lips. I want her to say it, to admit it. So I can carve it into my ribs and let it fester there long enough to justify everything I’m about to do.

My hand dips lower, dragging along the waistband of her shorts, teasing in a way that makes her twitch against the shelf.

“Did he make you come?”

I ask it like I don’t already know the answer. Like I haven’t memorized the way her body moves when she lies.

She says nothing, but her silence tells me everything.

I slide my hand higher, slipping beneath her shirt like I’ve got all the time in the world. My fingers splay across her ribs, and her skin is hot and soft against my palm. At this point, I’m not sure I could stop if she asked me to.

“Tell me,” I breathe, my mouth ghosting over her ear.

Her answer is barely a whisper. “No.”

Just one word. But it hits like a detonator.

I grin. “Did he even try?”

Her breath hitches. Barely there—but it’s all I need. I can feel her walls crumbling like they were never built to keep me out in the first place.

Her hand drops to my shoulder. “Please…” she breathes, like a warning. But her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt instead of pushing me away.

I drop to my knees anyway and she gasps—caught between panic and heat, the kind of sound that drives me fucking insane.

Fuck, if she only knew what she does to me.

My hands slide up the backs of her thighs, slipping beneath those tiny fucking shorts. Her skin’s warm, and she’s trembling. I can tell she’s trying to fight me and pull me closer at the same time.

I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, then bite the tender spot just above it—hard enough to make her jolt.

Mine.

She tenses when I push her legs apart. Her breath catches like she’s about to say no, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, fists clenching at her sides.

I wouldn’t care if she tried to stop me anyway.

I wouldn’t. My mouth follows the path of my hands—dragging up inch by inch, slow as sin.

I kiss every soft patch of skin I can reach, biting when I want to hear her gasp, sucking hard enough to make her whimper and when I finally slip a finger beneath her panties.

God, she’s a fucking mess.

She’s lucky those shorts aren’t any tighter. If they were, I’d tear them off right here—bookshelves be damned.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “So wet for me.”

I trace slow, torturous circles, watching her come apart without a sound. I watch the way she grips the shelf like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded, and how her knees almost buckle when I push two fingers in deep and curl them just right.

She’s fighting it. Still pretending she has control, and I fucking love that. That’s my girl.

“You’re not thinking about him now, are you?”

She shakes her head, breathless. “No,” she whispers.

I pull back just enough to look up at her, lips ghosting over her inner thigh.

“Say it.”

“I’m not thinking about him.”

I reward her with a filthy twist of my wrist. Her back hits the shelf, one hand slapping against the wood like she’s trying to stay upright. I bite her inner thigh, just to hear what sound she’ll make when I add a third finger.

She gasps like I punched the air out of her. God, she’s perfect like this—wrecked and still pretending not to be. I can tell she’s close. Her whole body tightens around my fingers, so I pull back.

She curses, throwing her head back.

“Not yet,” I murmur. “You don’t get to come until you tell me who you fucking belong to.”

She’s trembling—every inch of her—but she doesn’t give in.

Good. I don’t want her to hand it over. I want to take it. I want to tear it from her piece by piece until she says my name like it’s the only one she’s ever known.

I lean in, keeping my voice low as I brush her skin like a promise.

“Wonder if he ever gets to see you like this. Soaked and panting?”

My hand tightens on her waist.

“Shaking. Letting me take you apart like you were made for it. You act like you don’t want it, but your body’s fucking desperate.”

I kiss my way back up her stomach, dragging the tension with me. When I stand, I make sure she feels all of me—how hard I am, and how much I’m holding back.

I need to be careful or she’s going to end up naked on a pile of romance books.

My fingers trail up her chest, over the rise of her collarbone, circling the base of her throat, right over her pulse. It’s beating like it knows I could end her.

I pause there, long enough to remind her—I decide how this goes. Then I kiss her, hard enough to make her forget the name of whoever’s been trying to play in my fucking sandbox.

And when I finally let her breathe, I mutter against her lips, “You’ll come when I say you can. Not a second before. Understand?”

She glares at me, ruined and furious. “I hate you.”

I grin. She doesn’t even hear the way her voice shakes or the way her body leans on mine for support.

“No,” I murmur, kissing her again. “You want me. That’s worse.”

She’s breathless and trembling against the shelf, glaring up at me like she’d stab me if her legs weren’t jelly.

I almost wish she’d try. I’d pin her down and make her beg again—just to hear how fast hate turns to need.

I grip the backs of her thighs and lift, forcing her legs around my waist as I carry her the few steps to the table tucked behind the stacks—hidden from the main floor, but not far enough to be safe.

That’s the point. I want her squirming. I want her thinking about every sound she makes.