Page 46 of His To Erase
He just tips his head, dragging his dark eyes down my body with maddening patience.
“Careful, dear. Keep acting like that and I might have to find the closest ladder.”
My entire body locks up, heat flashing under my skin like a match to gasoline. I won’t give him the satisfaction. But fuck, my pulse is already thudding like it remembers exactly what happened the last time I was on a ladder with him between my thighs.
I walk away before I say something I can’t take back, and he doesn’t stop me. But I feel his stare like a brand between my shoulder blades as I duck behind the bar, grabbing the same glass I’ve cleaned three times just for something to do with my hands.
When I finally do glance up—when I can't help myself—he’s leaned back in the booth, arms spread across the top of it like he owns the entire damn room. His legs are stretched out and he has that same unreadable expression on his face. But it’s his eyes that get me.
He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for something.
I drop my gaze focusing on the glass in my hand and the way my fingers won’t stop twitching.
Goddamn it.
I’m annoyed. I’m spiraling. And I hate that the only thing grounding me right now is a cheap tumbler and a slow-building rage I’m trying to swallow down with it.
"You only clench your jaw like that when you’re holding back something violent."
The voice comes from behind me—low and smug, and entirely too close.
I jerk, nearly dropping the glass, because I didn’t even hear him, I didn’t see him leave the table.
He steps around the bar like we haven’t been dancing on a knife’s edge since the moment we met.
I stare at him, keeping my jaw tight.
“Jesus. You move like a fucking ghost.”
He shrugs, unbothered.
“You looked like you were about to commit a felony. Figured I’d come check before you shattered something over someone’s head.”
“Tempting,” I mutter. “But I have bills to pay.”
He leans in, hands braced on the bar, and suddenly his presence is a weight. I hate how my thighs press together on instinct whenever he’s close.
“Spit it out,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is. You’ll feel better.”
I want to grab him by the collar and demand to know what the hell that was—the look, the blonde, the absolute radio silence since the last time he touched me like I was something he’d kill for.
But I don’t.
Because he’s too close, and my chest is too tight. And because I’m not sure what would come out if I actually do.
Instead, I force a bitter smile.
“I’m fine.”
His eyes darken.
“You’re a shit liar.”
“Excuse me?” I snap.
He doesn’t flinch. He just lifts a brow, calm as ever.
“You’ve already taken six steps,” he murmurs. “That’s usually when you turn around and start swinging.”
