Page 39 of His To Erase
Then, with his eyes still locked on mine, he licks his fingers clean.
The bastard doesn’t even blink.
My skin still tingles where his mouth was.
I should feel used.
Instead, I feel cracked open. And he didn’t even have to try.
Ani
By the time I get home, my body’s vibrating with exhaustion. Every step feels like it’s dragging through wet concrete.
I don’t even bother with the lights.
The glow from the streetlamp outside spills enough light through the blinds to make out the shapes of my furniture.
I drop my bag with a thud, pull off my boots, and collapse into the corner of the couch like it’s muscle memory.
The silence swells around me.
No music. No voices. No bar chatter or clinking glasses or the steady hum of the espresso machine from the library.
Just stillness.
I lean my head back, close my eyes, and try not to drift right back to the library.I can’t believe I fucking did that.
Who hooks up with some mysterious, tattooed God in the middle of a public library—on a damn ladder, no less.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve gone over it a thousand times, replaying every second in my head like I’m trying to study the scene of a crime. And maybe I am. It felt like I blacked out, like some reckless, unhinged version of myself shoved all the caution and survival instincts aside and decided,yeah, let’s ride this stranger’s face next to a goddamn copy of War and Peace.
I’m not even going to lie—that was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done. It should scare me. What he did—what I let happen. But all I feel is this sick, dizzy hum under my skin. Like I want him to do it again. The danger doesn’t register until it’s already touching me…and that’s what really terrifies me. That’s the part of me that liked it.
My body still tingles when I think about the way he moved his tongue, and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted. The way he moaned against my cunt was like he was getting drunk off it.
It’s been days since I’ve seen him. Since he touched me. He ruined me with his mouth and left like he hadn’t just taken a piece of me with him.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
About how he stood there after—all smug like he hadn’t just turned my world inside out.Like…what the actual fuck?
He licked his fingers right there in front of me, making sure I saw every second. Then he looked up at me with that sinful mouth and had the audacity to say—"Next time, I won’t stop until your legs give out and you beg me to keep going anyway."
Next time?
I stood there for a full minute after, trying to remember how to breathe.
He’s a dangerous, walking red flag. The kind of man who smells like sex, secrets and bad fucking decisions.
I keep telling myself I should be relieved that I haven’t seen him again. That this was a one-time thing.
But the truth is, I don’t feel relieved.
I feel restless and on edge. Like something unfinished is coiling under my skin, waiting to strike.
The worst part is, I don’t even know his name.Which is probably for the best, a reminder to the logical part of my brain that this is why we don’t do these things.
