Page 89 of His To Erase
“You think I want to hurt you?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “No. I think you want to break me.”
His mouth twitches—just barely. Like his mind went exactly where mine did.
“You’re not that easy to break, sweetheart.” He pauses. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t break what’s left.”
Jesus. Fuck.
I felt that one in my soul.
He stops beside the bed, towering over me, and the air shifts. I hate the way I have to tilt my chin to keep eye contact. I really hate the way my body just reacts to his every move.
And holy hell…
Up close, shirtless, and fresh out of the shower—he looks like war made of muscle.
Veins, abs, and that fucking V. I can’t help but stare. What is a girl supposed to do? I’m not a nun. My eyes drag down his body like I’ve been drugged and the only symptom is thirst.
Yeah. I definitely have a head injury. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
“You’re staring,” he chuckles.
“I’m concussed,” I lie.
My gaze flicks—briefly—to the waistband of his sweats. Which is ahugemistake. Literally.
Fuck.
He sees it,of course, and that smile spreads like slow poison—smug, cruel, and fucking satisfied.
“Is that why your thighs keep clenching like you’re trying to hold onto your last shred of dignity?”
Heat floods my face. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re probably wet.”
My pulse spikes with rage and…arousal. I don’t know which one’s louder. I just know my pussy’s screaming.
“Fuck you.”
He leans in bracing his hands on either side of the mattress, caging me in without even touching me. I can’t breathe with his breath ghosting over my cheek. Not with his body that close and not with me being this fucked up.
“You’d let me.”
His voice is all gravel and promises I’ll regret in the morning, brushing against my ear like it has a goddamn vendetta.
My lips part, and God, I hate how badly I want him to close the distance. And honestly, he’s not wrong. I’m soaked. I’m woman enough to know what I want, and right now, it’s him.
My pulse flutters like I’m some wide-eyed idiot who’s never been kissed—it’s not like I’m not bruised and bandaged and still bleeding.
I’m pathetic.
His presence alone feels like I’m standing on the edge of a blade and begging it to slice deeper. Every inch of space he closes feels like a countdown I can’t stop and a warning I refuse to listen to.
Despite everything—despite the pain, the blood, and the rage that still simmers under my skin—I want him.
Seriously, girl. What the actual fuck.Maybe try wanting, I don’t know, an ice pack or a therapist next time.
