Page 25 of His To Erase

Her eyes widen, and her hands fist in my hoodie like she’s trying to hold onto something real while everything else inside her is slipping.

I drop into the chair and bring her with me, dragging her down onto my lap with a grunt that’s more growl than breath.

Her ass lands right against my cock, and she tries to squirm—tries to push off me—but my hands lock around her hips, holding her still.

She doesn’t get to run now.

“Don’t,” I warn, dragging my mouth up the side of her neck. “You grind on my cock like that, you take it. All of it. That’s how this works.”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” she snaps—but her voice is breathless and shaky. Her body clearly didn’t get the fucking memo.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders and her nails bite like she’s trying to anchor herself—or claw her way out of the need running through her. I can see the sweat beading at her temple.

I smirk. “You’re on my cock, sweetheart. That’s consent enough.”

She opens her mouth to fire back—but I yank her tank top down instead, exposing her breasts and her nipples are ready pebbled and waiting for me.

Her protest dies on her tongue the second my mouth covers the hard buds. I drag my tongue across one nipple, then suck it into my mouth, grazing my teeth just enough to test her. She’s going to learn to crave the pain I give her. My other hand slides into her shorts and she’s soaked.

She hisses through her teeth, arching her spine like a bowstring as I thrust two fingers inside—deeper this time.

Rougher. Twisting just right, and stroking the spot I know she loves.

Her body jerks, and her breath cuts off.

Her thighs clamp down like she’s trying to trap me inside her as her pussy clenches around my fingers.

One hand flies out, bracing against the table behind her. I grab her tank and yank it lower so my mouth can get better access to her other breast, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

She gasps—too loud.

I clamp a hand over her mouth without even looking up.

“You want to come?” I growl. “Then stay fucking quiet.”

She moans into my palm like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered, grinding against my hand, and chasing the edge like she thinks I’ll let her fall over.

She should know better.

I finger fuck her slow and deep—working her open, my wrist pulsing, holding her right at the edge.

“I told you,” I murmur against her throat. My cock straining beneath her. “You don’t come yet.”

Her eyes blaze. She’s glaring down at me, cheeks flushed as sweat glistens at her collarbone. Her mouth moves behind my hand in muffled curses, and probably threats.

She’s begging, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

Her muscles twitch, and her thighs are trembling. Her whole body’s begging for release. But I don’t let her come yet. I’m teaching her a lesson.

I ease off just enough to rip a whimper from her throat, and she looks at me with daggers in her eyes.

I hear footsteps seconds before she hears them. Her eyes snap open, panic crashing through her as the sound echoes down the aisle.

I start moving my fingers. Pumping them slowly while using my thumb to rub her swollen clit.

We’re buried deep enough in the shadows that they won’t see us, but she doesn’t know that.

The table creaks as she tenses, her body at war with itself—wanting to come, needing to hide, and helpless to do either.

I press my fingers deeper, adding a third. My mouth covers her nipple again, teeth grazing enough to make her jerk and nearly cry out.

I clamp my hand tighter over her mouth.

Her breath is ragged. Her panic is delicious as adrenaline pours off her in waves, sharp and dizzying and my cock throbs against her thigh like it’s tasting it too.

The footsteps pause and she freezes, whimpering into my palm, eyes pleading with me to stop.

I keep moving my fingers enough to make her twitch. Her eyes lock on mine—wild, and burning with fire and fury.

She wants to come.

She needs to.

I lean up, brushing her ear with my mouth. “You’ll take it,” I whisper, dragging my fingers over that spot that makes her shatter.

“Even if they stop right fucking here. You’re going to fall apart in my lap and pray they don’t hear you. Understand?”

She moans—crushed beneath my palm like she’s choking on need.

The footsteps shift again. Closer this time. She shakes her head, eyes going wide as tears pool in her eyes—not sure if it’s panic or how goddamn close she is.

Probably both.

Good. Let her fall apart afraid. Let her come with someone ten feet away and my hand between her legs, owning every second of it, because this isn’t about sex. It’s about surrender.

And I’m not stopping.

Not when her legs start trembling. Not when her lips part around a desperate whimper. Not even when she grabs at my arm like she might claw herself free just to breathe.

She’s so fucking close.

My hand at her mouth shifts to her throat—just enough to hold her in place and remind her who she belongs to right now.

My other fingers press deeper inside her, curling with lethal precision.

I’m not giving her release, I’m carving it into her. Her back arches and I feel her walls clenching, and her heartbeat slamming against my palm. She’s seconds away from unraveling, so I stop.

She bites her lip to keep from screaming. And then, with a shaky voice. “Please—”

It's wrecked and strangled and burning with shame. I almost groan from how hard my dick is. I want to feel her wet cunt choking me, but that’s not what this is about.

“Not yet,” I growl, and it nearly breaks her.

She thrashes against me, frantic now. If someone rounds that corner, I don’t care. I won’t stop.

I lean in. “I know you’re close.”

My fingers start moving again, slowly. I know I’m being cruel, but I don’t care.

“Just hold on for me, sweetheart. You’re doing so fucking good.”

Her eyes crash into mine—wide, desperate, and furious. She shakes her head.

“I hate you,” she chokes out, even as her thighs shake.

“I—fuck—hate you.”

Her wet pussy throbs around my fingers like she’s trying to break on them. I dip my head and bite the curve of her shoulder, and she spreads her thighs wider, offering herself up like she doesn’t even realize it.

I pull out slowly, dragging wet fingers between her thighs, across that swollen, needy mess I just made of her.

“Don’t look away,” I whisper against her skin. “You feel that? Hm? Does he do this to you?”

She moans and shakes her head. Still I hold her there. Because this is what she gets. I slam three fingers back into her, hard enough to jolt her whole body.

My other hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to bare her throat. She gasps—half sob, half curse.

“Fuck you,” she breathes.

I sink my teeth into her neck and growl, “Now. Come for me.”

Her hands clutch at me like I’m her last salvation—but she fucking breaks. She comes hard and messy, choking on a sob she tries to bury in my shoulder, but it tears out of her anyway.

I want it burned into her memory—how loud she got for me. I want her to remember that no one else will ever pull that sound from her again.

They can try.

Her body goes limp while her thighs are still twitching, her breath is all hiccupped panic and overstimulation.

I let her fall forward, forehead pressed to my chest, my fingers still inside her. Still holding her open. Still owning every single piece of her.

She just breathes against my throat—shallow and uneven—her body still trying to decide if it survived what I just did to it. Her fingers twitch against my chest, the aftermath still pulsing through her like an aftershock.

She broke, and I should feel satisfied. But all I feel is this fucked-up need to keep her here. I didn’t just get under her skin—she got under mine, too. I could sit here for hours just feeling the weight of her on me.

I don’t rush her, because I want her to sit with it. I want her to feel every filthy thing I just did. Every sound I dragged out of her, and every inch I claimed like she was made for it.

Her breath finally stumbles out, and she shifts—barely—like she’s remembering where we are.

I drag the pad of my thumb over the inside of her thigh and she tenses again and starts to push up.

I grip her hips before she can move. “Next time, you don’t let anyone else put their hands on you.”

She goes still like I struck a nerve. “I can’t be this girl.”

My grip tightens, but I let the silence stretch between us, my fingers curl around her waist, and my other hand is resting on her bare thigh. My dick is still hard as a fucking rock under her and I’m considering taking her right now.

She doesn’t breathe for a second too long and I feel the war inside her rise again.

The one she’ll never win.

Not against me.

When she finally pulls back—just enough to glare at me with a look that says she wants to claw her way out of her own skin. She climbs off my lap without a word, straightening her shorts with shaking hands, and grabs the book she’d dropped and starts to walk away and doesn’t look back.

She’s been ignoring me all goddamn night. She just sent the other bartender over to take my order, eyes conveniently glued to the register like she didn’t know I was here.

Cute.

They’re slammed, sure. But she’s not that busy. Every time she walks past, she makes it a point not to look at me. Like I’m a ghost and if she pretends hard enough, I’ll disappear.

It’d be infuriating if she didn’t look so fucking good while doing it.

She’s still in those cut-off shorts—the ink on her thigh poking out, and those goddamn boots on like she’s ready to kill someone and look hot doing it.

Her cropped tank clings to her chest, and every time she reaches for a bottle, it rides up just enough to show that sliver of skin I’ve already marked in my head.

I could sit here all night just watching her.

I don’t get the chance to say anything because her friend has already clocked me.

The name tag says Sarah—and I’ve seen it before, blown-up on her phone screen in those late-night texts. The ones that always start with ‘you okay’ and end with ‘want me to bury a body.’

Sarah slams a glass down in front of me like she’s trying to rattle a corpse.

“You again,” she says, one brow cocked, and her lips twisted in a knowing smirk. She’s got the kind of attitude that doesn’t ask permission—it announces itself. She’s definitely trouble.

I glance at her. “Didn’t order anything.”

“Didn’t ask,” she says. “Consider it on the house. Or an offering. Depends on how weird you plan on getting tonight.”

I lift the glass but don’t drink. “You always this friendly with your customers?”

“Only the ones who eye-fuck my best friend from the back booth like it’s a contact sport.”

That gets my attention. I turn toward her fully now, but she doesn’t back down.

“I don’t know who you think I am,” I murmur.

“No,” she fires back, cutting me off. “I know exactly who you are. You're the one who shows up like clockwork, and makes my girl forget how to breathe.”

I don’t answer, instead I just lean back in the booth, watching her, letting the silence press between us like a blade.

She taps the edge of the table with one red-painted nail. “Look. I’m not saying I don’t get it. She’s hot, unavailable, and emotionally constipated. It’s a whole thing. But if you hurt her…” She leans in, her smile going razor sharp. “I’ll end you. And I’ll make it look like an accident.”

I blink once. “You done?”

“Not even close.” She straightens, chin tilted like she’s daring me to ask what she means. Then she jerks her head toward the bar. “You’re welcome, stalker.”

I take a slow sip of my drink, watching her over the rim. “She told you about me?”

She snorts. “Sweetheart, she didn’t have to. I’ve seen that post-trauma glow. Plus, she came in looking like she got rearranged alphabetically.”

I nearly choke on my whiskey.

She grins, unbothered. “Relax. I think it’s romantic. In a feral, possible-felony kind of way.”

I shake my head, biting back a laugh. I glance toward Ani, who’s still pretending I don’t exist with her tight jaw, and her long hair twisted up like she’s trying not to think about the last time I had my hands in it.

Sarah follows my gaze, then leans in close, dropping the act just long enough for me to hear the warning in her voice. “Just so we’re clear? I’m dead ass serious, I don’t care how big and scary you think you are, I’ll stab this straw through your eye and make the lobotomy look accidental.”

Then she pats my arm like we’re best friends, spins on her heel, and walks off like she owns the place.

I watch her go, knowing exactly what she is—trouble in red lipstick and loyalty sharp enough to cut. She’s the kind of girl who’ll smile at you while slipping the knife between your ribs if you hurt someone she loves. And right now, she’s watching Ani like a hawk in eyeliner.

Good. Someone should be.

A flicker of movement catches my eye—Ani slips behind the bar again, her mouth is set in that sharp little line she wears when she’s pretending she’s fine.

I can taste the edge of her unraveling like it’s smoke on the back of my tongue.

My dick takes it as an invitation and starts to press against my pants.

I barely notice the girl until she speaks.

“Hey there, stranger.”

A voice cuts through the low thrum of the bar—too sweet, too rehearsed, and laced with too much perfume and the kind of confidence that wilts under rejection.

I ignore her, but she slides into the booth across from me anyway with her big smile, her too-tight dress, and cleavage shoved together like it’s supposed to do the talking for her.

“You come here often?” she asks, biting her lip like it’s supposed to be cute. “Because I’d definitely remember seeing you.”

I lift my glass, taking a slow sip. I don’t look at her, or say a word.

She laughs nervously. “That’s cool. You don’t have to talk. I can still suck you off in the bathroom though.”

Jesus Christ.

I glance up then, finally meeting her eyes, and letting the silence stretch until it bites. Then I lean forward, resting my arms on the table.

“You always talk this much when a man’s clearly not interested?”

Her mouth opens with some half-formed protest bubbling out, but I’m already looking past her—watching Ani disappear through the back door with a trash bag slung over her shoulder.

The girl blinks, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“No.” I smile, sharp and unbothered. “Excuse yourself. Off my table.”

She stands too fast, and the chair screeches. She mutters something that sounds like asshole as she stalks away.