Page 8 of His To Erase

I can’t tell if his eyes are on me or the door or nothing at all—but I feel it. That prickle. That old, familiar whisper of instinct that says you’re not alone.

Whatever. Not my problem. If he wants a drink, he’ll come ask for one like everyone else. I shove the thought away and turn back to the bar, forcing myself to focus. I pour drinks, take orders, and pretend the exhaustion dragging claws down my spine isn’t winning.

A familiar buzz rattles against my thigh, so I pull out my phone when no one’s watching and glance at the screen.

Sarah: Still dying, thanks for asking. Send whiskey and forgiveness. Preferably in that order.

Me:You’re the worst coworker I’ve ever had. And I’ve worked with a guy who used to put pickles in his pockets.

Sarah: Hot. What’s happening? Anyone cute? Any murders?

I glance at the far corner, feeling the weight of his stare, and I don’t know why, but I bet that man would be a good time just based on his energy alone.

Me: One possible shadow-dwelling psycho in the corner. Jury’s out. Could be hot. Could be a hallucination.

Sarah: DO NOT BANG A HAUNTED MAN, HOE.

I tuck my phone away with a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, but it fades quickly, because when I look back up—the table is empty. And yet… I feel it. The air thickens with gravity that wasn’t there a second ago.

I feel it before I see it and my pulse kicks up. Traitor.

It’s him.

Tattoo man.

Library guy.

Mr. Philosophy with murder eyes and a jawline that belongs in a museum I wouldn’t survive.

He’s all dark gaze, broad shoulders and carved-from-trouble energy wrapped in bad decisions. And somehow—some-fucking-how—he looks better than I remember. Which should be illegal. Or at least taxed.

Let’s be honest—I didn’t do him justice.

Not even close.

He steps up to the bar, placing both hands on the counter like he owns it. The ink on his knuckles stands out against his skin, intricate and brutal—a warning dressed as art. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t need to.

"Whiskey. Neat," he says.

His voice is exactly how I remember it—low, deliberate, and smooth enough to be velvet but threaded with something darker. It’s a punch straight to my pussy.

I take a slow breath, willing my pulse to stop doing that stupid fluttering thing it’s been doing since he walked in.

"Well, well. If it isn’t the great philosopher himself," I murmur, reaching for the bottle. "You here to discuss Nietzsche over cocktails?"

He doesn’t react.

"Just the whiskey."

I tilt my head, letting a smile tug at my mouth.

"Shame. You don’t strike me as a light reader."

One corner of his mouth twitches—barely—but it’s enough to register. Then it’s gone. Buried under that unreadable, coiled stillness again.

"And you don’t strike me as a bartender."

My brow arches. "No?"

"No."

His gaze drags over me slowly, and way too effectively.

"You look like trouble."

I pour the drink as steady as I can manage, even though my insides aren’t.

"That’s funny. I was just about to say the same about you."

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. He just watches me as he takes the glass from my hand, and his fingers brush mine. Just for a second, but it was long enough.

A flicker of heat that rushes straight through me. I have to bite the inside of my cheek and keep my expression neutral.

Or I try to.

He lifts the drink to his mouth, slow and unhurried—like he’s doing it for show and knows I’m watching.

Because I am.

He sets the glass back down, eyes dipping—not just to my chest, but lower, like he’s giving me time to catch him.

"You should be careful who you flirt with, bartender." His tone is mild, but his gaze is anything but.

I lean against the bar, meeting it head-on.

"And you should be careful who you underestimate."

This time, he smirks. A slow, crooked curve of his mouth that feels more like a threat than a compliment.

And my pulse spikes again.

His fingers tap once against the glass, then he lifts it again, and sips like he has all the time in the world.

My eyes track every movement, helpless against the pull—how his fingers wrap around the glass, how his mouth barely parts, how the amber liquid slips past his lips.

I hate the way my body reacts. The way my pulse kicks up, and the way my skin heats under the weight of his stare like I’m already losing a game I didn’t agree to play.

I roll my shoulders back, forcing my spine straight, as I arch a brow. "So, what, you only read when I’m around? Or do you just haunt libraries for fun?"

A flicker of amusement passes through his expression, but it’s gone before I can grab onto it. "You were watching me."

I scoff. “You were the one pretending to read.”

He hums, low in his throat, the sound lazy and dangerous, like he’s amused.

When he sets his glass down like he’s got all the time in the world to play whatever game he’s started, I can’t help but drool a little.

“Was I pretending?”

My pulse skips–a full traitorous stutter.

I narrow my eyes, leaning in just slightly, refusing to let him see how much that one line got to me.

“You tell me.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. Just a fraction. And then he leans in, slow and intentional, like he’s doing it to prove a point. The scent of whiskey curls off his breath, laced with something darker.

God, he’s infuriating.

And hot.

But mostly infuriating.

I shift my weight, pretending to straighten a bottle behind the bar just to break eye contact.

“I think,” he murmurs, voice like a velvet noose, “you’re just looking for excuses to be near me.”

My jaw tightens.

Oh, fuck you.

I don’t say it out loud, but I think it hard enough that I’m sure he hears it. His eyes don’t leave mine. He just lets the words hang there like a challenge.

A line I haven’t decided whether to cross—or set on fire.

My fingers twitch against the bar and I roll my eyes with a little more force than necessary. “You’ve got a real problem with misreading people, huh?”

He tilts his head, studying me with the kind of focus that makes your skin feel too tight. He's peeling back layers with his eyes and not even pretending to be subtle about it.

“I don’t misread anything, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

Yeah, no. The way he says it—it’s not sweet, it’s a threat dressed as affection. A dare.

Heat prickles up the back of my neck, curling low at the base of my spine and I know without a doubt, it’s a warning I should listen to.

But don’t.

Then it spreads, pooling right where I don’t want it to. God, I hate the way my body betrays me sometimes. I press both palms against the bar, grounding myself against the cool surface.

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

The words snap out sharper than I intend, but he only smirks—wider this time.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

He takes another slow sip of whiskey, mouth curling around the rim of the glass like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes stay locked on mine—steady, and impossible to read.

“Let’s see how long you believe it.”

Fuck. Him.

I glare, refusing to acknowledge the way my thighs are pressing tighter together under the bar. Or the fact that his voice could probably be classified as a lethal weapon with the way it goes straight to my currently aching pussy.

I hate him.

I hate the way he talks. I also hate how badly I want to climb across this counter and see if his mouth is as good as it was in my imagination.

But instead I ask, dry as ever, “Do you always try to flirt like this, or am I just lucky?”

He sets the glass down, his fingers dragging along the rim with slow, deliberate strokes. Then he leans in again, this time close enough that I can feel his breath brush the space between us.

“Who said I was flirting?”

My skin prickles, and God, I hate that I’m this wet for a man who hasn’t even touched me. He hasn’t even laid a single fucking finger on me—and still, I’m one breath away from unraveling.

His voice is too smooth. It doesn’t need to rise above a whisper to dominate the air. It’s the kind of sound that wraps around you like silk and steel, equal parts luxury and restraint. A quiet threat, and a promise I’m not sure I’d survive.

This guy hasn’t done anything but sit there, sip whiskey, and look at me like I’m already his. And apparently, my body couldn’t get on board fast enough.

I can feel the slick between my thighs like he’s already been there, wrecked me, and left the memory behind.

And for what? A smirk? A voice that sounds like sin learning how to purr?

Jesus fucking Christ.

I tighten my grip on the edge of the bar, willing my expression into something smug, like I’m not seconds from saying something reckless.

"Then why are you still here?"

He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me like he’s already undressed me in his mind and is now deciding what to do with the mess he made when he lifts his glass in a lazy toast—like we’re both in on some unspoken joke—and the smirk returns, cocky and unbothered, like he never left.

“Because I like watching you pretend you don’t want me to be.”

My stomach drops.

Not the fluttery kind. The violent, molten kind. The kind that shoots straight through my core and leaves a dull, aching throb in its wake.

I open my mouth, ready to claw back some ground, throw something sharp and mean—something that’ll make me feel in control again, but a hand slaps against the bar before I can speak, dragging me back to reality with all the grace of a brick to the head.

I blink, pivoting toward the new problem of the night. A half-drunk asshole waving his empty glass at me like I’m his personal barmaid.

“Hey, baby, let’s move it along, yeah?”

He rattles the ice like it’s a fucking dog whistle, but I don’t move. Neither does Tattoo Man.

But I feel the shift in him.

His posture doesn’t change, not really. Just a flicker in his eyes—barely a breath—but it’s enough.

I lift my chin breaking the stare first and reach for the bottle with the kind of slow, deliberate calm that doesn’t feel natural.

“You’re gonna need to learn some patience,” I say coolly, pouring the drink just slow enough to piss him off.

My blood is buzzing.

The drunk guy snatches his glass like I owe him something, muttering a barely coherent thanks before stumbling off toward a booth, already forgetting I exist.

Must be nice.

I exhale and press my fingers into the wood, trying to reset and while I’m at it, I try to shake off the heat crawling up my spine and the awareness still coiled tight between my thighs like a loaded weapon.

This is fine. Totally normal.

A tattooed deviant lurking at the bar like he wants to eat me alive, and I’m… What, exactly?

Flattered?

Irritated?

Soaked?

All three.

Unfortunately.

Apparently, I’m into brooding men who look like they strangle people for sport and flirt like it’s foreplay for murder. Add that to the list of things to talk about in therapy.

I glance back—and he’s still there.

Still watching.

Still carved from shadows and sin.

His arms are folded across his chest, and those dark eyes—God, those eyes—they haven’t left me once. That mouth twitches like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and it’s making me want to agree to really bad things.

I need to walk away and ignore him. Especially considering the type of men lately who come here and stare at me. I mean I know it’s a bar, but I’m not sure what the fuck is going on lately. Whatever, let him stew in whatever smug, cryptic bullshit he’s clearly enjoying.

I grab a glass and pour, going slow on purpose. The liquid slides down the glass like honey, catching the light just right. I know he’s watching. I can feel it.

That stare of his presses into my skin, and it should piss me off. Instead, my pulse stutters.

I keep my face bored and unreadable, even as heat creeps up my neck. I slide the glass across the counter with a flick of my wrist. “Try not to look so impressed.”

He doesn’t touch it or even glance down. He just drags one finger slowly along the rim.

“Should I be?” he murmurs.

My thighs press together before I can stop them, as a slow burn curls low in my stomach, and I swear I feel it spread.

I arch a brow, holding onto sarcasm like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

“What, never had a woman pour you a drink before? Or are your standards just that tragically low?”

It comes out smoother than I feel. I’m about two seconds away from combusting under the weight of his stare. But his expression doesn’t shift. If anything, that mouth of his twitches again—like he’s just pacing himself.

“I’ve had drinks poured,” he says, voice calm—almost bored. “Just not by someone who makes me wonder what else those hands could fit around.”

Heat flares immediately and I can feel it go straight to my cheeks.

Asshole.

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. More to hold myself together than to shut him out.

“Do lines like that actually work for you?”

He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, then sets the glass down and leans in just enough for his voice to roughen.

“Do you feel like walking away right now?”

God, I want to punch him.

I hate that my brain doesn’t fire back with something sharp and clever—just that quiet, immediate no that lands low in my stomach.

But that’s not an answer I’ll ever say out loud, so I keep my expression neutral.

"You’re awfully cocky for someone who just drinks whiskey and broods over philosophy books."

I let it hang there, just long enough to feel the stretch.

"What’s your deal, anyway? You make a habit of eye-fucking bartenders until they collapse out of sheer confusion—or do your pick up lines usually get them naked?"

His eyes flicker—but there’s not a single crack in his composure.

"Only the ones who pretend they don’t like it."

My panties are now ruined.

I should remind him that I don’t play these games. That men like him—men who move with deliberate confidence, who make you feel like they could ruin you just for fun—are exactly the type I swore I’d never fall for again.

This time when he leans in, it’s close enough that I catch the warmth of his breath against my skin. He’s now close enough that if I moved just a little, I’d be in dangerous territory.

I don’t move, but God help me, do I think about it.

And then—just as I think he might actually fucking touch me—he pulls back. Which irritates me more than it should.

I scowl as he slides a few bills onto the counter. "Keep the change, sweetheart."

My jaw locks. "I told you not to call me that."

His smirk is infuriating, all patience and power.

"And yet," he says, lifting his glass to his lips, "you still answered to it."

I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know. But before I can find something sharp enough to throw back at him, he’s already standing, already turning toward the door, already leaving me behind.

I watch him go, pulse hammering, with heat simmering beneath my skin like a slow-building fire.

He never touched me, and yet, I feel wrecked.

And that pisses me off.