Page 51 of His To Erase

She’s not supposed to look like that when she kneels. Not when I thought she already belonged to someone else. I want to hate her for it. I need to, but she’s down there now, looking up at me like she’d do anything I told her to—and all I can think is how fucking right it looks.

I smile and take a slow step back, then turn and walk toward the chair across the room, dropping into it like a fucking king. Right now, I own her. Even if she’s too stubborn to admit it yet.

My cock throbs behind my sweats, hard enough to hurt. I can’t even remember the last time I had blue balls this bad. But I’m nowhere near done with her yet. Not even fucking close.

She starts to rise—like maybe that was it.

“Stop.”

Her body freezes mid-movement, head snapping up to look at me, with her eyes wide. She’s a quick learner. Good girl.

I sit forward, elbows braced on my knees, staring her down with every ounce of dominance she deserves to choke on.

"Take off that fucking necklace," I growl. "Or you don’t move another inch."

She stiffens, and I watch it hit her. That chain around her pretty throat—Frank’s chain, still clings to her skin like some kind of brand. Not fucking happening, not while she’s kneeling in front of me. Especially not while she's soaking through her leggings just from the sound of my voice.

She hesitates.

I lean in closer, dropping my voice into something darker, and dangerous enough to make her whole body stall.

“Make your choice, pretty girl.”

Her eyes flick to mine in a glare.

“You can keep his collar…” I hold her gaze. “…or you can crawl.”

She doesn’t move at first, not even to breathe. And then—slowly—her hand lifts to her throat, undoing the clasp, and the necklace slips free. She’s looking right at me when she lets it fall to the floor with a soft clink.

“Happy now?” she snaps, her voice cracking at the edges.

I try and fail to hide my smirk. She’s still fighting, but it’s useless—and we both know it.

“Now crawl.”

“I’m not crawling for you,” she mutters, defiance hanging by a thread.

That bratty mouth of hers opens like she might argue again—but the words don’t come. They die on her tongue, along with whatever pride she was still clinging to with the look I give her.

Whatever storm’s unraveling in her head, she doesn’t say a word. She just drops and starts to crawl. Every inch of her screams rebellion, but her body screams want.

At first, she moves like she’s unsure. Her spine’s stiff—like every inch forward is some kind of personal protest. She’s moving like it’s beneath her and she’s making a statement with every inch. The fight doesn’t vanish—it just turns inward with a quiet surrender. A raw, reluctant offering.

And fuck, if watching her break like this isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my whole Goddamn life.

I wait until she’s right in front of me—kneeling between my feet before I lean forward enough for her to feel the weight of my voice against her skin.

“You ready to be fucked?” I murmur against her mouth. “A dripping, desperate slut who had to be broken just to remember how to fucking breathe.”

Her breath stutters, but she nods.

"Use your words."

"Yes," she whispers. "Please."

I grab her by the hair and yank her head up—forcing her to look at me. Her wide eyes show hesitation already written all over her face.

“Use your words,” I growl. “Tell me what you want.”

She freezes—just for a second. And that second is all I fucking need. I shove her back hard, slamming her into the carpet with a roughness she doesn’t even fight.

My knees land between her legs as I tear her shirt up to her waist and drag her leggings down in one motion.

She gasps.

And fuck—she’s bare. No panties. Just her soaked, swollen clit. Her pussy is flushed and dripping like she’s been waiting for this since the second I walked in.

I slap her cunt and she jolts, moaning. I lean in, breathing against her ear.

“You wanted control, didn’t you?” I rasp. “Wanted someone to see what a filthy little mess you are—” I drag my fingers through her wet cunt. “—and take it anyway.”

She nods frantically, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as I drag two fingers through her slit, and her whole body arches.

"I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget how to speak," I snarl. "And then I’m gonna do it again. And again. Until you forget what it felt like to belong to anyone but me."

I shove my fingers deep, curling them just right, and a scream tears out of her throat—raw and wet and fucking feral.

I drag my thumb over her clit, circling with the kind of ruthless precision that feels more like a warning than relief.

The second her legs start to shake and her mouth falls open, she’s already begging, and clawing at the floor like she doesn’t care if she comes or fucking dies, as long as it’s for me.

"Please—fuck, Steven—please, I can’t—"

"Yes, you can," I growl, curling my fingers deeper, playing with that spot that makes her forget why she ever tried to fight me. My thumb rolls tight circles over her clit, not giving her a second to think, to breathe, or even to hide.

Her whole body locks up, every muscle taut. I keep dragging every ounce of sensation out of her until she's panting and writhing under my hand.

"You're gonna come for me," I bite out, right against her jaw, “and you're gonna fucking thank me while you do it."

She sobs, her thighs are quivering, and her hips rock helplessly into every thrust of my hand.

“Say it.”

She claws at the rug, her voice breaking on every syllable.

“Th-thank you—fuck.”

And then she shatters. Right there on the floor. Her spine bows like I’ve strung her up tight and snapped the cord as her pussy clenches around my fingers, dripping all over my hand as her cry splits the silence in half.

I don’t stop.

I keep fucking her through it—dragging the orgasm out until she’s gasping and coming so hard her whole body sings for me.

I just watch her fall apart like it’s my fucking religion. And god help me—because I’ve never believed in anything more than the way this girl comes when I make her.