Page 54 of His To Erase

Ani

How is it that this man can make me wetter than a whore in church and ready to punch him in the face five seconds later? Something in my chest pulls tight, but I don’t turn around. Not giving him the satisfaction.

I storm into the kitchen and start yanking open drawers like I belong here, even though I haven’t got a damn clue where anything is.

The first one’s full of knives. Cool. That’s comforting.

I make a mental note of that, in case I need one later.

The second drawer has a bunch of batteries and zip ties.

Which is slightly alarming. The third just has a single loose rubber band and a pack of gum that expired two years ago.

I blink at it. “Jesus. What are you, a serial killer or a Boy Scout?”

Still no answer from behind me.

“Not even a protein bar or some cookies?” I mutter, slamming it shut. “What kind of maniac lives off rage and raw intimidation?”

I try to focus on finding food. I need something—anything—to do with my hands. I open the fridge and grab the first few things that look remotely edible—lunch meat, mustard, and a jar of what looks like pickles.

I mutter something half-feral under my breath as I toss the jar and the half-crushed bread onto the counter. I reach up—fast, too fast—and that’s when it happens.

The cabinet above me swings open, and crack—“Son of a bitch.”

My skull snaps back and the jar slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a wet, mocking splat. It’s all over my foot, the floor, and the cabinet. The crime scene of my dignity.

I just blink at it, dazed. Maybe if I stare long enough, it’ll take itself back. I can tell by the smell that they definitely weren’t pickles. Not even close. “Is that... sauerkraut?” I mutter, wrinkling my nose.

I grab a paper towel swiping at the mess and somehow, I make it worse. Now everything’s wet. Perfect.

I’m mid-wipe, muttering curses, when I feel him behind me. He steps into the kitchen, dragging his gaze over the splattered mess, then up to me and my flushed, mustard-footed mess.

“Of course you’d break something,” he mutters.

That’s it. Is he fucking kidding me?

I hurl the dirty paper towel at his chest without hesitation. “Go fuck yourself,” I bite out. “With a butter knife.”

It hits dead center and sticks—right over his chest. He looks down at it, then back up at me. No smile, not even a laugh.

Fuck.

Is he going to murder me for this? Is this it—the final straw, the moment I pushed too far?

And then—Fuck me. He grabs the hem of his shirt and peels it off in one slow, fluid motion. His muscles flex like the universe is punishing me on purpose, and tosses it onto the counter without a word.

Just like that—he’s standing there. Shirtless. Giving me that look. That heavy, consuming look that sees right through everything I ever tried to hide. It’s the same one he gave me when he made me crawl to him. And like the unhinged masochist I apparently am, I look lower.

The ink across his chest is impossible to ignore—and I can’t help but trace the one that trails down his side, curving just beneath the waistband of his sweats.

My thighs clench before I can stop them, and I can feel my pulse throbbing between my legs.

Jesus.

I’m wet. Again.

Apparently, my body has zero survival instincts because the way he’s standing there is worse than anything he could say.

Under his stare, I feel it all flooding back. The hunger. The surrender. The way I’d crawl again right now if he told me to. He takes one slow step forward, with his eyes locked on me like I’m the next thing he’s going to devour.

I don’t even know what I was going to say and all I can think is, Goddamn it. He’s going to wreck me again and I’m going to let him. I clear my throat, eyes flicking back up to his face like I wasn’t just eye-fucking him and all his tattoos.

“You planning to put a shirt on, or are we doing this whole… kitchen striptease thing now?”

It’s meant to be sarcastic but it comes out breathless. His eyes narrow slightly, then he steps closer. I don’t back away, even though I should. I’m fucked in the head, apparently.

He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of me—close enough I can feel the heat coming off his bare skin. He leans in, and his mouth brushes the shell of my ear.

“You’re the one who started stripping me, pretty girl.”

My knees almost buckle as his fingers trail over my wrist. “You remember what happened last time you couldn’t stop looking.”

Of course I fucking remember. That will live rent free in my mind for life.

“You begged,” he murmurs. “You crawled. And I broke you open with my fingers before I even let you have my cock.”

I swear my pulse skips and I feel him everywhere.

“You want more?” he asks, deadly soft. “Keep looking at me like that.”

And just like that, I’m trembling again. My whole body’s humming, all too aware of every inch of his skin, and every slow breath between us. So I do the only thing I can do to shut it down.

I roll my eyes, scoffing through the burn in my throat. “God, you act like your dick has divine powers. Trust me, I’ve had better.”

The second I say it, I know I’ve gone too far. It’s a lie. A stupid, reckless, screaming lie. Because no one’s ever touched me like he has. No one’s ever looked at me like that—like they could tear me open with their hands and make me thank them for it.

He straightens and I can see that calm, cold mask slipping right into place—it’s dangerous how in control he is.

“You didn’t seem to mind when my cum was dripping down your thighs and you were moaning my name like it was salvation.”

I go still, but he doesn’t stop.

“You want the truth?” he says, cold enough to ruin me. “You looked wrecked. Your body already fucking knew it belonged to me. And you were so wet—” He leans in, eyes dark. “I could’ve buried my face between your legs and choked on it. I would’ve died happy, too.”

My chest heaves—I can’t tell if I want to slap him or crawl into his lap and make him say it again.

There is something seriously wrong with me.

No one should be allowed to talk to me like that, to say something that filthy and have my body light up like a christmas tree.

I swallow hard, trying to hold onto the anger, but it’s slipping—drowning under the heat pooling between my legs.

“I guess it’s easy to sound like God when you only fuck women who forget their standards.”

His jaw flexes. But instead of biting back, he smiles. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking a step toward me, “you didn’t forget your standards. You just never had any.”

I open my mouth to say something, but he cuts me off.

“You let me touch you the same day we met. You crawled for me like you had no self-respect left to give. Don’t act like you’re hard to break when you gave me everything without asking for a single fucking thing back.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest and my throat burns, but I force the words through it.

“Right,” I snap, eyes narrowing. “Because you’re such a fucking prize. You think I didn’t feel it?”

He doesn’t answer. So I go for the throat.

“I know who you are now, Steven.” His name tastes like venom. “I know exactly who I let crawl inside me.”

His jaw ticks, but he still says nothing. The silence between us shatters and reconstructs a hundred different ways, all of them jagged.

“Or maybe you liked pretending I didn’t know. Maybe that made it easier to treat me like a hole instead of a person you can’t fucking stop wanting.”

That hits somewhere deep, but he doesn’t let it show. Not with his face. Just the way his whole body goes still.

“Careful, sweetheart.” His voice is a low, lethal threat. “Keep talking like that and I’ll remind you exactly how much you liked being used.”

“Go to hell,” I growl, pushing past him.

“Already there, muneca. You just made it feel like home.”

I stop. Dead in my tracks. The words bury themselves somewhere under my ribs and light the whole place on fire. Why would he call me that?

I turn slowly.

“Funny,” I hiss, “you only ever seem to hate me when your cock’s not inside me.”

Something flickers in his eyes, but then he laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself, baby. I’ve fucked a lot of girls who begged.”

His next words come like a knife to the throat. “Difference is, they didn’t crawl for me with someone else’s fingerprints still on them.”

Silence detonates between us and my stomach drops, but my blood turns electric.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

He steps closer, eyes black with something unreadable—something mean.

“You heard me. Maybe you should think a little harder about the men you spread your legs for. Starting with the one who owned you before I ever touched you.”

He doesn’t say his name but he doesn’t need to. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and my face burns. My fists curl so tight my nails dig half-moons into my palms. And when I speak, my voice is shaking with fury.

“You don’t get to talk about me like that,” I whisper. “You don’t get to use what you think you know as a weapon.”

“I’m not wrong though, am I?” he growls, stepping in like he wants to drive the knife deeper. “I see it in your eyes every time he’s near you. And worse—every time you look at me, like you’re still trying to figure out who you belong to.”

Are we fighting? Because I didn’t come in here looking for one, but apparently all we do is fuck or fight—or both at the same time. I was just trying to breathe, and now I’m angry and exposed and staring at him like it’s his fault I feel everything too loud.

“Go fuck yourself, Steven.”

I turn around and don’t stop walking, because if I do, I’ll scream.

Or hit him. Or worse—I’ll stay. My feet carry me down the hall on instinct alone and my breath is caught somewhere between a sob and a snarl.

I can’t hear anything over my heartbeat.

I shove the bedroom door open and slam it behind me like it might erase everything he just said.

You liked being used.