Page 126 of His To Erase
He lifts a brow. “Dangerous words coming from you.”
“I want your phone.”
He doesn’t blink. “Oh, this should be good.”
“You heard me.” I lean in. “Unlock it. Give it to me.”
He stays perfectly still. That mouth of his twitches like he might laugh—and I hate that part of me wants to know what he tastes like.
“You planning on finding something that will make you hate me? That’s cute.”
“I’m planning on calling myself,” I bite. “From your phone. So I know once and for all if you’re the one who’s been texting me.”
He leans back and looks more entertained than anything as he folds his arms across his chest. The way his shirt pulls tight over his biceps makes me want to drop to my knees and find out if he tastes as dangerous as he looks.Fuck my life.
Focus.
“So what,” he says lazily, “you’re just gonna cross-examine every guy who turns you on until one of them blinks?”
I should slap him. Or myself. One of us needs it.
“You’re not that special.”
He shrugs, smug as hell. “That makes one of us.”
God, I hate him and the way his voice gets under my skin.And between my legs. Ugh.
“You realize this is more stalker behavior, right?” I try to sound pissed, but it comes out needy. “The shit you say, the?—”
“Watching isn’t stalking,” he says smoothly. “We’ve been over this.”
“Sounds like exactly what a stalker would say.”
He chuckles. “And yet here you are, asking for my number.”
My eyes narrow, and I’m seriously debating punching him. “I’m not asking for it. I’m verifying it.”
“Right,” he drawls. “Totally different.”
Without blinking—he holds the phone out between us, with the screen already unlocked.
“Well?” his voice dips just enough to drag across my skin. “Go ahead. Call yourself.”
I snatch it from his hand before I can second-guess myself. The phone is warm—still carrying the heat of his body—and the thought that hits me next is so uninvited, so stupidly feral, I nearly drop the thing.
It was just in his pocket.
Right next to?—
No.
Absolutely not.
This is not the moment for a mental detour into dick territory. This is not the time to wonder how low that waistband sits, or if he’s one of those guys who goes commando just to ruin lives. Or how big he is.
This is a who-the-fuck-is-threatening-me moment. A real-life danger moment.
Not a let’s-imagine-what-he’s-working-with-under-his-clothes moment.
