Page 51 of His To Erase
Why do I have to open my big fat mouth?
The sidewalk narrows where the streetlights flicker, casting a golden glow that makes everything look too intimate.
I stop walking. My eyes flick up to meet his, sharp and searching. “You gonna tell me your name?”
He studies me like he’s deciding whether I’ve earned it. That quiet stillness he wears like a second skin settles deeper into his posture—solid and unreadable.
Then, with a voice like gravel and gasoline he says, “Why? You planning on screaming it?”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting, even though my thighs clench and my lungs burn, knowing damn well I’m drenched.
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who knows how to follow a girl home,” I say, flipping it, letting the fire in my chest bleed into my voice.
He steps closer, with no warning, and no hesitation. His body brushes against mine and my back meets the cold, unforgiving brick of the alley wall.
“Your turn,” he murmurs.
I blink, dazed. “What?”
“Your name.”
“Luna,” I lie, forcing my spine to stay straight.
His head tilts. Shit. He knows I’m lying. There’s no way he could know my name. I don’t wear a name tag at the bar for a reason. And when my boss makes me, it’s new every time.
He doesn’t call me out on it, though. He just leans in, until his mouth is at my ear, and I can feel the heat of him everywhere.
“Pretty name,” he murmurs. “Shame it’s not yours.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t crack.
“You gonna prove that?”
He doesn’t move at first—he doesn’t need to. He just watches me with that unreadable gaze, like he already knows how this ends. Then his hands slide to my hips, fingers curling tight, and he pulls.
Now I’m flush against him—chest to chest and my mouth starts to water.
“Sweetheart, I don’t have to prove shit.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then drags back up. “I decide when you break.”
His thigh slides between mine, pressing up, pinning me to the wall as his mouth descends—hovering, grazing my throat, his breath teasing every inch like he’s already claimed it.
“You like this,” he says against my skin. “This game. Lying to me.”
“I don’t?—”
I do.
He nips the underside of my jaw, enough to make me gasp. His hands lock on my hips, grinding me against his thigh with just enough pressure to make my brain short out.
“You do,” he growls. “And if I pushed my fingers inside you right now, you’d be dripping, wouldn’t you?”
He drags his nose along my cheek like he’s savoring me, then presses his mouth to the shell of my ear.
“Say it.”
“I’m not?—”
“Say it.”
