Page 35 of His To Erase
Who the fuck is this man?
Heat coils low in my stomach. My fingers dig into his shoulders as soon as he starts to roll me down the aisle like we’re on rails to hell—right into the far corner, deep in the shadows.
I expect him to keep kissing me and finish what he started. I want him to press his mouth to mine until we both forget our names, but he doesn’t.
"Climb."
I blink. "What? No."
His fingers tighten against my thighs—tight enough to warn me that he’s serious.
"You heard me."
I really should remind him I don’t follow orders—especially from men who wear control like cologne. But I don’t. Because apparently, my body didn't get the memo. It's already leaning into him.
My jaw clenches as defiance coils tight in my gut like barbed wire.
Fine. I’ll climb, but not how he wants me to.
I smile, and keep my front to him as I take the first step. Then another. Slow, and deliberate enough to taunt.
If he thought I was going to give him the satisfaction of watching me obey—he can choke on it.
I feel his hands, sliding beneath my skirt as his fingertips ghost up my thighs. It’s so light it’s almost cruel.
My breath catches as heat lashes through me, sharp and twisted and impossible to ignore.
God, I hate this, or maybe I just hate how much I don’t. Because I still don’t stop him or tell him no.
“Turn around.”
His eyes lock on mine like they never left and everything in me goes still.
I grip the ladder tighter, and for lord knows what reason, I do.
Slowly.
His gaze drags over me, and for the briefest moment something dark flickers there, something thrumming with amusement.
"You like taking orders, don’t you?"
His voice is silk-wrapped sin. I force a laugh—but it’s breathless and weak. And it’s a betrayal I can't hide.
"You wish."
His grip tightens on my hips enough to remind me I’m not in control anymore.
When his mouth brushes the inside of my thigh, just under the hem of my skirt, it melts my ability to think.
A sharp sound rips from my throat, caught between a gasp and a warning I’ll never say out loud.
My fingers claw at the ladder, my nails are scraping metal like I’m trying to anchor myself to anything but him.
"You sure?"
That voice—It’s a fucking dare dressed as a question. I want to say no, I want to roll my eyes and tell him to fuck off, shoving his smug mouth back where it came from.
But my body has other plans because I’m soaked and throbbing. Everything in me is surrendering without permission.
