Page 222 of His To Erase
Then he pulls back.
“No—please?—”
He reaches for the soap behind me, his fingers grazing my waist. “Turn around,” he murmurs. “Let me wash you.”
Water slides down my front as he lathers his hands, and suddenly, I have the urge to cover myself. Somehow, this feels more intimate than any of the filthy sex we’ve had so far. He runs his hands over my shoulders, arms, and the curve of my spine. He moves around me like he’s got all the time in the world—every touch is slow, focused, and far too reverent for how wrecked I already am.
“Every inch of you is perfect,” he rinses me. “Even the bruises I left.Especiallythose.”
His palm glides over my ass, fingers lingering at the base of my spine. “You don’t even know what you do to me,”he murmurs. “You get like this—dripping and wrecked—and I swear to God, all I want to do is ruin you.”
He’s not just washing me. He’s claiming me with his touch. With words. With patience I didn’t know he had and I want to sob from how badly I want him to never stop.
“You’d let me,” he whispers. “Wouldn’t you?”
I nod. Because it’s not even a question. It’s a fact I’ve already surrendered to.
He grips my ass, spreading me just enough to make me gasp. He takes his time, lathering slow circles over the soft skin before moving between my thighs. And when his fingers drag over my pussy and brush my puckered hole like it’s just another part of me he owns, my vision goes white at the edges. He’s just washing me, but I’m trembling, wet, and seconds from coming undone.
By the time he finishes, I’m breathless—and he hasn’t even fucked me yet. He shifts behind me, rising slowly, and the heat of his chest presses to my back. I shiver from the unbearable tension of his slick hands sliding down my hips like he’s still deciding whether to stop or ruin me all over again. His fingers linger like a man caught between reverence and hunger. And I swear if he touches me again, I’ll beg. I’ll crawl. I’ll do whatever the hell he asks.
I turn my head to look at him, and he looks like he’s fighting the urge to bend me over and fuck me into the tile right now.
I reach for the soap because I need to touch him. After everything he’s just done to me—every inch he worshiped—I want to see if he can survive being wanted the same way. If he can stand still while I trace every line of him, shaking with the effort not to fall apart.
My fingers are unsteady as I lather the soap, and the second my hands meet his chest, he goes still. He obviously doesn’t know what to do with the soft parts of me I haven’t offered until now.
He exhales, and clenches his jaw. “You don’t have to.”
But I do. God, I do.
I don’t know if it’s weird to say how beautiful he is, but UGH. Like, he’s got to know how fucking hot he is.
I glance up, breathless. “You’re kinda stupid hot, you know that?”
His eyes cut to mine, but I don’t stop. I press closer, palms slick over ink and muscle. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Hot water cascades over his shoulders, down the thick lines of his arms, across muscle that flexes under my touch like he’s trying not to let go. I run my hands over his chest, watching the soap swirl and rinse away as I drag my palms over every inch of him I can reach.
I want to mark him with my mouth.
I want to taste him again.
I want to press my lips to every inch of skin he refuses to believe is worth worshiping. I trail my hands lower, over the cut of his abs, down to the sharp line of his hips—and the second I wrap my soapy fingers around the base of his cock, he grabs my wrist.
“Ani.” His voice is strained—tight with restraint, and rough with warning. But underneath it, I hear the truth. He’s not telling me to stop. He’s telling me he’s close to losing control.
I meet his eyes, but I don’t let go. “Let me touch what’s mine.”
His jaw flexes, like he’s trying to hold something in. His hands drop to his sides, and his fingers twitch. He’s breathing is ragged, but he lets me. Fuck, the way he’s looking at me now—like I’m the dangerous one—makes my stomach flip and my thighs squeeze tighter.
There’s something addictive about watching him fall apart from something I’m doing. All that control, all that power—and I’m the one that can bring him to his knees. Yeah. That does something to me.
I stroke him, and his whole body shudders.
God. I could get drunk on this.
I keep going—washing him with slow, reverent strokes—dragging my fingertips over his thighs, behind his knees, along the curve of his ass. Every inch of him feels like something I wasn’t supposed to have—but I’m taking it anyway.
