Page 127 of His To Erase
I need therapy or celibacy. Or maybe a baseball bat and a rage room. Maybe all three.
I type in my number, and my fingers are sweaty. This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. I have no idea why I’m so nervous.
I press call, and my phone—still face-down under the bar—starts to buzz.
I stare at it, flipping it over, and sure enough… it’s not the one that's been haunting my screen.
My stomach dips, but I hang up and check the recent calls again just to be sure. It’s not him and somehow, that’s worse. Because that means someone else knows where I sleep, what I wear, and who I’m with. And I have no fucking clue who they are.
Which also means, I don’t know what the hell I’m dealing with.
Steven hasn’t moved. He just watches me with his arms folded, and those stupid unreadable eyes, like he’s letting me choke on the weight of my own doubt. And suddenly, I feel stupid. Embarrassed.
“See?” he says, maddeningly calm. “Not me.”
I hand the phone back without meeting his eyes, keeping my jaw locked tight. “You could have another number.”
He takes it, totally unbothered. “I could. But if I wanted to scare you, Ani…” He leans forward, and his voice—God—his voice dips low and brushes the shell of my ear like a fucking confession. “I wouldn’t use a burner. I’d show up. You’d know I was there because you’d be able to feel me.”
My breath stutters.
Not because of what he says, but because I believe him.
Every word lands like a promise. No hesitation. No bluff. Just cold, hard certainty delivered in a voice built for temptation.And it just turns me on more. I’m so fucked.
“I don’t play games,” he murmurs. “I take what I want.”
I laugh, sort of, but it comes out too high.
“Then maybe you should leave,” I say tightly, “before you take something that isn’t yours.”
But my voice doesn’t carry the punch I want it to. His eyes have already dropped—straight to my mouth—and I know thatlook. I’ve felt that look. That look knows things it shouldn’t, like what I taste like when I forget myself, and what kind of sounds I make when I break.
He leans in just enough for the heat of him to skate across my skin— he smells like cedar and leather and whatever the hell lives between a loaded weapon and a fuck-you grin.
It’s a scent I’ve already memorized and it’s not helping the situation.
“I’d be careful if I were you.” And just like that, he straightens to his full height.
Holy fuck.
I stare up at him and swear I can feel my common sense leaving the building like it’s clocking out early to save itself.
My pulse is Wrecked.
My spine, Liquid.
And my dignity is holding on by a goddamn thread.
“I don’t share,” his voice is barely above a whisper, but it lands like a promise. “And I don’t forget when something’s mine.”
Jesus.
How is my body this stupid? He opens his mouth and suddenly my ovaries are planning a hostile takeover. I step back because I have to. If I stay that close to him for any longer, I’ll either hit him… or let him wreck me.
And knowing me, it’ll be both. In that order. Then I’ll probably want to hit him again. Just for making me feel this way.
“Newsflash,” I breathe, trying to sound sharp. “I’m not yours.”
