Page 61 of His To Erase

Ani

Ishift, trying to stand and pull my sweats up, which apparently is a mistake. His hand snaps out and clamps around my hip like a fucking leash.

“No.”

I freeze, turning to look at him. “What—?”

“You can stay like this.” His voice is calm. Almost gentle. But there’s nothing soft about it. “No pants. No panties. I want my cum dripping down your thighs while you eat.”

My cheeks flame. The humiliation is instant, crashing into the raw aftershocks still pulsing through my core. “You’re not serious.”

He grabs my chin and forces my head back, eyes locking with mine. His stare is lethal.

“I’ve never been more serious.”

I don’t breathe for a full five seconds, and when he finally releases me and turns toward the fridge, I realize how hungry I am.

“Mac and cheese?” he mutters, opening the fridge and tossing ingredients on the counter. “Fucking hell. If I’d known you had the taste of a frat boy on house arrest, I would’ve let you starve.”

I shoot him a look, too dazed to fire back properly. I’m still bare from the waist down, and still very much pulsing and flushed. I can feel his cum sliding slowly between my legs.

He glances over his shoulder and he’s smiling.

“Stay there. I'll feed you.”

My stomach flips.

A few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me—grilled chicken, roasted sweet potatoes, and sautéed vegetables.

“You’re such a weirdo,” I mutter, dragging the plate closer with shaking fingers.

“If anyone’s wrecking your insides tonight, it’s gonna be me—not whatever powdered chemical shit that was.”

I nearly choke on a bite. “Jesus. You’re the one who had it.”

He grins—smug and feral. “Eat.”

I do. And when I finish, he doesn’t say anything for a long moment—his dark eyes just watch me.

“Talk.”

I blink. “About?”

“Do you want to come again tonight?” he asks, already standing, circling behind me. “Then you’re gonna answer my questions.”

His fingers graze my neck possessively. “You tell me something real… and I’ll reward you.”

I tense. “You’re bribing me with orgasms?”

He leans down, lips brushing my ear as he smirks. “No. I’m training you to be honest.”

A shiver rakes down my spine. I can’t decide if I hate that… or want more of it.

“Well?” he murmurs, his hand trailing lower. “Start talking.”

I scrape the last bite from my plate and push it away, standing slowly. I make a beeline for the couch and tug the throw blanket over my hips—like it’ll somehow erase the fact that I’m still bare underneath.

He sinks down beside me with slow, predatory ease, draping one arm across the back of the couch, and the other is already under the blanket, resting on my thigh, drawing slow circles on my skin.

“Start talking,” he murmurs again. “Something real.”

I glare at the screen—Slughorn mumbling, Harry chasing shadows, but all of it blurs at the edges because he’s doing that thing again with his fingers.

“I used to dream in Spanish,” I say suddenly.

Steven doesn’t move, but I feel him tense.

I swallow hard, but keep going. “When I was little. My mom always made me speak English, even in our house, but when I was alone—when I dreamed—it was Spanish. Still is sometimes.”

Silence.

“I didn’t even realize it until… Someone made fun of me for mumbling in my sleep. Said I sounded like I was casting a curse.” A laugh slips out. “They weren’t wrong.”

His hand shifts, brushing slightly closer to my entrance.

“Our house was always loud, and there was always someone yelling, playing salsa music or frying something with too much oil. My favorite part was in the mornings, the windows would fog up, and you could always smell rain in the air before it hit.”

His touch stills on my thigh. “What else?”

I shift under his hand, pulse kicking. “You first. This isn’t one sided.”

He stares at me for a second, like he’s deciding how much to give me. Then he speaks.

“Alright.” He exhales through his nose. “There was a girl I grew up with. Not by blood—but she called me her brother. And I let her. Hell, I probably needed her just as much as she needed me.”

His thumb moves once on my thigh, slow.

“I started working for her father, and the first job he sent me on, I thought I was supposed to be watching her. Keeping her safe. Thought it was a test.” He huffs a breath. “Turns out she was there to watch me.”

He pauses. “She made that real clear when she disarmed me five minutes in and told me my stance was shit.”

He shakes his head once, like the memory still stings. “I was twenty-one, cocky as hell, and ready to prove something. She was seventeen and already better than most men I knew. Smarter, too. And meaner than hell when she had to be.”

His expression shifts, hardening with something darker. I sit with it for a second, then glance down at where his hand rests on my thigh. “Let me guess. You were the reckless one?”

His mouth curves. “No. I was the weapon they kept on a leash until they wanted something dead.”

A beat passes.

“Well.” I exhale. “That took a turn.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but what’s alarming is my lack of reaction.

He huffs once, barely a breath of a laugh. “You asked.”

“I did. And I’m regretting it a little now.”

My voice sounds light, but my pulse’s doing things I don’t love. There’s something razor-sharp behind his words—something old and buried so deep it scrapes when he tries to dig it up. He says it like a joke, but I have a feeling there’s more to that story.

He leans in, eyes still on mine, and drops his voice to something quiet and lethal. “Then maybe it’s your turn.”

I should lie. Or dodge. Or throw something flirty and bratty back at him just to keep the balance. That’s what I do—keep it so far from the truth that nobody thinks to look closer. But something about him in this moment makes the words slip out before I can stop them.

“I always wanted to open a bookstore,” I murmur. “Nothing fancy. Just a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop with creaky floors and weird hours. Maybe a crooked bell over the door and a frenchie that bites everyone except me.”

His hand doesn’t stop, and I can feel the smile tugging at the edge of his voice when he finally responds.

“That’s adorable,” he drawls. “You? Curating romance novels and yelling at customers for dog-earing pages?”

I roll my eyes. “No yelling. Just strategic glaring.”

He huffs a quiet laugh—and fuck, it shouldn’t hit the way it does.

It’s low, and unexpected, almost like he forgot to keep it locked down.

Something about that sound—how rare it is, how real—makes my chest pull tight.

I feel like I just witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to see. And I want to hear it again.

“Let me guess,” he teases. “The shop’s called something pretentious, like Mourning House.”

I bark a laugh, cheeks flushing. “Wait, shut up. That’s actually a good name.”

He leans in slightly, while simultaneously grazing my clit. My breath stutters, but I don’t pull away. A beat passes. Then another. When he speaks, his voice is different…quieter.

“You said something the other night.” His tone’s casually. “About how you don’t remember getting here. To Denver. Is there anything else you can remember?”

I stiffen before I can stop myself. Why the hell would he ask me that and why the fuck does it matter? Despite the rising tide of questions and hesitation, I answer truthfully.

“No.” A beat. “Maybe. There was a hallway and a couch I didn’t recognize. I think… I think I was staying somewhere else. Just for a little while.”

Another pause. Then his voice lowers, calm as ever. “Were you alone when you left?”

My stomach clenches. “I think so.”

“You think?”

I glance at him, but his face gives me nothing. Just steady eyes pinning me in place.

“There was a lot of yelling,” I whisper. “And I know I was bleeding… I just don’t know where. My shoulder maybe or my face. I don’t know—I just remember the taste of copper, and something warm dripping down my ear.”

Steven’s hand tenses on my leg. But I keep going. “I woke up in a motel, with my shirt on backwards, and my head was split in half, or at least it felt like it. My phone was gone and I had to get a new one.”

A bitter breath leaves me. “Pretty sure that’s when everything got fuzzy. Like my brain decided to slam the door shut and call it self-care.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Then —“And you didn’t go back?”

I huff a humorless laugh. “What, and leave a Yelp review? ‘Two stars—terrible lighting, lots of blood, would not recommend.’ Steven, it was a fucking crime scene. What the hell was I supposed to go back for?”

He stays quiet for another moment. “Did you ever tell anyone?”

I shake my head. “Not really. People get weird when you don’t have a neat little trauma story, and your memories don’t come in a straight line.”

I glance over—and freeze.

There’s something in his face. Just a flicker of rage in his eyes. He schools it fast, but I saw it.

“What?” I ask, voice sharper than I mean it to be.

His expression smooths out completely. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” I snap, sitting up straighter, yanking the blanket higher even though he’s already touched every inch of me. “You just looked at me like—I don’t know.”

Steven leans back against the couch, elbow hooked over the backrest. Completely still. Retreat mode activated.

“You ever think maybe you don’t want to know?” he says quietly.

My chest pulls tight, and by the look on his face, I’m not sure we’re talking about me anymore. “What the hell does that mean?”

His eyes flicks to Harry and Dumbledore standing on the rocks beneath that spinning cave of cursed water. His jaw ticks again, but he still says nothing. I hate the silence. I also happen to hate the way he can read me like a book but locks his own pages shut.

“Jesus, why do I even talk to you,” I mutter, standing up. “Every time I give you something real, you pull back like I’m the problem.”

He stands too. “Because you are real. That’s the problem.”

I blink. For a second, I think I misheard him. “What the fuck does that mean?”