Page 42 of His To Erase

Ani

The car’s still running and so is my panic. And my fucking libido, apparently.

He glances over his shoulder to make sure I’m still there, then gets in without a word—like he already knows I’ll follow.

I’m still standing on the curb, thighs pressed tight, fully aware this might be the worst decision I’ve ever made. And I get in anyway, because I need to know what those hands feel like when they’re not choking out monsters—but pinning me down instead.

The car smells like him. Leather, smoke, and something darker.

Something that shouldn’t make my stomach flip but absolutely does.

I’m wet just thinking about it, which is a turn of events I wasn’t anticipating.

One look from him can destroy every defense I’ve built.

I want to crawl out of my own skin or right into his lap.

He pulls out onto the road. No questions. No music. Just his hand gripping the wheel and his eyes locked on the road like there’s nothing in the world that can shake him. Which is hilarious, considering I feel like I’m barely held together by willpower and Aquaphor right now.

I shift in my seat, trying not to look at him, which ends up being an epic fail.

He’s all sharp angles and silent fury, his jaw is tight enough to crack bone.

One hand grips the wheel like it’s a neck he’s thinking about snapping, and I can’t stop staring at the way his forearm flexes, causing his veins to pop out like a roadmap to a bad decision I’d crawl into headfirst.

He's pissed and somehow, that only makes it worse. Because I should be scared, or at least cautious—but all I can think about is what those hands would feel like wrapped around my thighs instead of the steering wheel. I clearly have an imagination problem where I’m constantly visualizing what those hands could do.

I open my mouth to say something, only to close it again, because what am I supposed to ask…

Where are we going? Also? Still not over the part where you somehow have a key to my apartment.

That’s not creepy at all. And… you don’t get to storm in like that and act like this isn’t a whole new level of fucked up.

Because I don’t even know if this is damage control or the next disaster.

I don’t ask any of it because I’m not even sure he would answer. Not the way I want him to. Instead, I stare out the window and force my breathing to stay even.

Goddamn him.

After a few more blocks, I finally get enough courage to speak. The silence was starting to feel like a second skin I can’t peel off.

“Is this normal for you?” I ask quietly, not looking at him. “Picking up strays and driving them someplace like you’re not even curious what the story is?”

His knuckles flex around the steering wheel and I swear, the air in the car tightens with him.

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. He just keeps driving, like he’s letting the question hang long enough for me to choke on it.

And it’s working. I’m starting to question everything—my sanity, my instincts, the fact that I texted a man I barely trust and then followed him into the dark like it was normal. Maybe I am the problem here.

I’ll deal with that later—when I can fucking breathe. And when I know I’ll live to see tomorrow.

I don’t know if it’s the car, the night, or the man behind the wheel, but it feels like I’m suffocating without anyone touching me. My fingers dig into my thighs enough to feel something that reminds me I’m still alive.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You think I do this often?”

I blink, turning my head toward him, unsure if I heard him right.

Yeah, well. You didn’t have to come get me. The fucking audacity on this man, like I’m the one projecting.

My laugh is dry, “You’re avoiding the question.”

He glances at me, and the look he’s giving me knocks the air out of my lungs without even touching me.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

God, I hate him.

I hate that I-see-right-through-you energy that makes me feel more naked than I’ve ever been. I open my mouth ready to snap something back, but once again the words don’t come because the truth is—I don’t want an answer.

Whatever this is—whatever he is—it doesn’t come with explanations. It comes with tension, and silence, and a storm in the shape of a man who keeps showing up right when I’m about to break. I just haven’t decided if that’s a coincidence

I also hate that I feel safer with him than I do in my own fucking apartment, so I turn back to the window and let him drive.

“I can feel you thinking,” I mutter, crossing my arms and leaning my forehead against the glass.

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

I bark a humorless laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. Coming from the man who somehow got into my apartment and dragged me into the night without so much as a where-the-fuck-are-we-going.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

“That didn’t stop you from following.”

My head snaps toward him, heat flares under my skin like a fuse was lit. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of options.”

“You really think I didn’t notice?” he says, keeping his voice low and calm. But it lands like he’s twisting a knife, just to see how deep it’ll go.

I glance over. “Notice what?”

“The way you flinch—and still don’t pull away. The necklace you won’t take off. The look you get when someone puts their hands on you.”

My stomach drops.

What the fuck? That hits lower than I want to admit. I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have called him.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I snap. But my voice sounds thinner than I want it to.

He lets out a quiet sound—half exhale, half something crueler. “I know enough.”

“Fuck you,” I whisper, but there’s no power behind it.

His mouth tilts just slightly. “Not yet,” he says.

My thighs clench before I can stop them, like my body’s already imagining exactly what that would feel like. I swallow hard, and I can feel my breath getting more uneven, and I hate how fast I go from furious to needing something violent with his name on it.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “Do you even hear yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You’re pissed at me and I don’t even know why.” My voice sharpens. “You keep looking at me like I’ve done something I owe you an apology for, and honestly I’m sick of it.”

Still nothing. And that pisses me off more than anything else.

“You think I wanted this?” I snap. “You think I like being watched? Followed? Having to ask for help from someone who looks at me like I’m about to ruin his whole week on purpose?”

He glances at me—just enough to catch the fury in my eyes, but not enough to flinch from it.

“You called me,” he says.

“I didn’t want to.”

“But you did.”

His words land like a slap I want to lean into and my jaw tightens and so do my thighs. Because underneath all the rage and deflection, there’s a part of me—rotten and starving—that doesn’t want safety or softness.

It wants him.

I can’t even look at him right now without wondering how his body would feel wrapped around mine.

“No one forced you into the car.”

My head whips toward him, pulse spiking. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

His jaw ticks. “You walked out that door. You followed me. So don’t pretend you didn’t choose this.”

I want to scream. I want to tell him that choosing something doesn’t make it safe. That needing someone doesn’t make them good. That fear and desire—sometimes taste the same. One burns. The other cuts. But either way, you bleed.

But I don’t say any of that.

My thighs are clenched so tight that I can feel the slick heat between them like a confession I didn’t agree to give. And no matter how hard I pretend otherwise, some sick, wrecked part of me wants to see what he’ll do if I keep pushing him.

I don’t answer, because if I do, it’s going to be a moan.

So I keep looking out the window, pretending the trees are more interesting than the heat pooling in my core, and pretend I don’t feel him watching me, cataloging every breath, every shift, and every goddamn betrayal of my body.

Everything is happening so fast, and I think I’m going to be sick.

“Pull over,” I say.

It’s barely a whisper, but I watch as his knuckles flex on the wheel, knowing he heard me. He yanks the wheel hard and pulls us off the road, tires grinding against gravel until we’re swallowed by trees and shadows.

The second the car stops, I’m out, slamming the door behind me like that’ll shove the fire back where it belongs—in my chest, not between my legs.

I hear his door open, then shut. He just moves—all quiet fury and lethal calm—stalking toward me like I’m the prey stupid enough to come too close to the cage. I back up fast, but not fast enough. My spine hits the hood of the car—and I curse under my breath.

His hand lifts slowly and his fingers brush my jaw, tilting my chin up. “You don’t give the orders,” he murmurs. “But you’re so damn good at begging without even realizing it.”

My body’s betraying me—wet heat pools between my thighs like he dragged it out of me just by breathing in my direction.

“I didn’t beg,” I snap, but my voice is shaking.

He smiles. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail down the column of my throat, pausing right over my pulse. I’m practically panting as his thumb presses just enough to make me want more. My knees nearly buckle, and it’s not from fear—it’s the promise of losing control.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”

I can’t. Because I don’t want him to.

His hand slides lower, brushing the edge of my hoodie, daring me to stop him. “Tell me to go back to the car.”

My fingers curl into the fabric at my sides, knowing I should do something. Instead, I arch toward him like a fucking masochist.

His other hand fists in my hair, yanking enough to make me gasp, exposing my throat.

“You won’t say it,” he growls. “Because you want this.”

“I hate you,” I hiss. I also hate that I don’t want him to stop.

“Good.” His voice is dangerous. Addictive.