Page 52 of His To Erase
My hands curl into his hoodie. I want to shove him away, but I also want to pull him closer. Fuck. I don’t know what I want because my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders right now. It’s obvious what my body wants, though.
I don’t say anything, because his thigh presses harder, and his mouth trails lower, while his hand grips the back of my neck like he owns me.
“You can keep lying to yourself,Luna,” he breathes, dragging the name out like a sin, “but your body says otherwise.”
His lips crush mine, punishing and filthy and hot enough to make my knees give out. And I kiss him back like I’m starving.
Just when I start to lose myself in it, he pulls away, like he knew the exact second to leave me breathless.
Motherfucker.
I scoff, turning my back on him before I do something stupid like ask for more.Or climb him like a tree.
“You’re not going to invite me in?”
I glance over my shoulder, hoping my glare is sharp enough to cut glass. “Try breaking into my place and I’ll show you how friendly I can be with a kitchen knife.”
That mouth twitches again. “Noted.”
He just stands there, watching me like he knows just how badly my body wants to invite him in.
“I’m going inside now,” I say—more for my own benefit than his. Maybe if I say it out loud, I won’t hesitate.
I turn the corner behind the building, each step echoing louder than the last. My pulse hasn’t slowed, it’s still thudding somewhere between my throat and my ribs, quick and uneven. I tell myself it’s adrenaline, or maybe just nerves.
I glance over my shoulder, but he’s not there.
The space feels colder without him in it, which is insane. The man’s basically a walking threat in a hoodie, but there’s a weird comfort in knowing exactly where he is—even if it’s two feet behind you with a smirk and a comment that makes your skin flush and crawl at the same time.
I expected him to be there. Leaning against the lamppost. Waiting for me to change my mind. But the shadows are empty and the street’s deserted.
Good.
Because I might’ve murdered him if he caught me sneaking past my fake address like a damn raccoon at midnight.
I cut through the alley, making a sharp turn toward the next building over—my building. The real one. Still a dump, just with a slightly less dramatic porch light. My feet are moving faster than I want to admit, boots hitting the pavement with the kind of urgency I refuse to name. Not panic, obviously. Just…practical fear.
God, I’m a disaster.
By the time I make it through the stairwell, my hand trembles against the railing and I have to tell myself it’s the cold. Not the high voltage of adrenaline and hormones still coursing through my veins.
It certainly has nothing to do with the tattooed God of a man that seems to be lurking everywhere.
I don’t stop until I’m inside my apartment—deadbolt turned, and every lock engaged like it’s some kind of holy ritual. Only then do I let myself breathe. I let my back hit the door with a soft thud, like maybe that’ll keep him out of my head too.
At least I can cling to one win tonight.
He bought it.I think.
Maybe I should’ve gone into theater instead of hiding from the wreckage of my own life and calling it survival.
The air inside is still and stale, but I don’t move. Not right away. I just stand there, letting the silence settle over me like dust.
I’m so tired. Not just physically, but in that bone-deep, soul-frayed kind of way. The kind of tired that wraps around your spine and whispers that you’ll never actually be safe.
I glance at my phone, tempted to call Sarah and tell her I survived another round of emotional whiplash, maybe send her a selfie with the caption “Still hot, still haunted.”
She’d text back something like “Main character shit,” and I’d pretend it helped.
