Page 87 of His To Erase
Because fuck. His chest is carved from hunger and restraint—every cut and ridge is sculpted like some bored, horny god decided to personally design my downfall. Tattoos cover him like armor—thick black ink crawls across his chest and wraps down his arms like a dare. One sleeve is all blackout—solid and merciless, and the other’s chaos. There’s linework and weapons and symbols I don’t understand but desperately want to. Script winds down to his knuckles, which is stupidly hot.
There’s one sprawling across his chest and another trailing along his ribs, half-swallowed by shadow. I can’t read them, but the second I spot them, my thighs clench like they’ve made up their own damn mind. I would lick every single one of those.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
He looks like someone took sex and violence, mixed it with gasoline, and poured it into the shape of a man I’m not supposed to want. And yet—yep. I want every goddamn inch of him on my tongue.
His arms are fucking massive. Don’t even get me started on his veins, popping like a felony. I look a little lower, which isn’t hard considering I’m basically eye level. That V that disappears into his sweats is criminal.
My mouth goes dry as heat pools low and fast and absolutely not invited.
This is a man built to fuck you up—emotionally, physically, and spiritually and I’m already halfway to falling apart and he hasn’t said a single word.
My eyes drag down his chest again because I’m clearly trying to punish myself with the view.
I don’t stop until I hit the waistband of those goddamn sweatpants, and even then, it’s not because I want to. If I don’t look away now, I’m going to spontaneously orgasm. I want to punch him in the throat for making me want him so damn much.
But I want to lick him first.
And that’s a problem, because I’m laid out in his bed, bandaged and bruised, with my shoulder wrecked—and my first coherent thought when he walks in is how fucking hot he is and how much I want to impale myself on him.
I should be thinking about how he might’ve saved my life. I have no idea where I am—but I have a sneaking suspicion I’m in his house.
I should say something, but I can’t. He looks like the kind of mistake I want to make on repeat until I forget why I ever tried to stop.
My pulse spikes when his eyes land on mine.I sure as fuck hope he can’t read minds.
He stares for a beat, then clears his throat, nodding toward the glass of water on the nightstand.
“You’re awake.” His voice is smooth, yet rough.
Try not to sound too concerned about the fact that I nearly bled out in an alley while you were off charming blondes like it was your goddamn hobby.
I don’t say that. So instead, I just stare at him, because what the fuck am I supposed to say?
“You look like shit,” he adds, walking past the bed like he’s not at all concerned that I’ll lunge for the knife and stab him.
“Try not to bleed on the sheets. They’re new.”
My jaw locks. Every part of me screams, but I push myself up anyway. The pain lances down my side, ripping a sound from my throat I don’t mean to make.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up.”
“No shit,” I snap, gritting my teeth. “Thanks for the medical advice, Doctor Dick.”
He exhales through his nose, but I see the corner of his mouth tilt, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Still got that mouth, I see.”
“Still got that ego, I see.” I pant through the pain, pressing my good hand into the mattress like it might anchor me. “Where the hell am I?”
“My house.”
I keep my face neutral while my pulse decides to just trip over itself.
I glance around again, slower this time—like the walls might cough up a clue about who the hell this man actually is. I suspect he’s not normal.
“Why?” I ask.
