Page 55 of His To Erase
She didn’t even flinch, she just marched herself up to the shittiest complex on the block and stood there like it belonged to her.
She clearly wanted me to just believe it and walk off, disappearing into the dark. I’m already wound so fucking tight with the urge to take her apart.
I waited two blocks away, with my hands in my pockets while she looped behind the building. She probably thought she was clever, and didn’t look back. Not once.
She thinks she’s careful.
She’s not.
Her window’s dark now. But I know which one it is. Even though I know she locked the door behind her, I could pick it in five seconds flat.
Locks are for amateurs and I’m not some voyeur with a hard-on and a half-baked fantasy.
I’m worse.
I’m the kind of man who already knows how she tastes. Who’s already had her under him. Shaking and breathless. And if she thinks that was the end of it—she’s out of her fucking mind.
I’ve had her on my tongue, felt her body tremble, clawing for control she didn’t have. And fuck me, something broke in me the second she came.
She’s not just pretty. She’s beautiful—in that don’t-look-too-close-or-you’ll-bleed kind of way. All jagged edges and fire wrapped in five feet of fight, and she’s nothing like I would’ve expected. That long hair—half white, half black—should look ridiculous, yet it doesn’t. It fits her like the chaos she pretends she doesn’t carry.
She dresses like she’s going to war. Every piece of fabric is armor. Every layer, a challenge. I’d peel her like a fucking fruit, until there’s nothing left but the soft center she doesn’t let anyone touch.
The tattoos down her arms. The smudged eyeliner she never fixes. That fucking mouth—always a smart ass comment just waiting to come out. She walks like she’s got brass knuckles braided into her DNA. Everything in me wants to break every rule she’s made for herself just to see what it takes to keep her.
She’s the kind of beautiful men ruin themselves over trying to tame. And she let me close. That was her first mistake.
The kiss wasn’t about heat, it was about timing. Her phone slid right out of her pocket like it belonged to me.
Now it does.
I’m two buildings down, posted in the shadows between a rusted fire escape and a vending machine that hasn’t worked since the city still had hope. It smells like piss, fried oil and rain-soaked concrete—but I don’t care. Comfort isn’t why I’m here.
She is.
Her phone’s still warm in my hand, but it’s locked. I huff a dark laugh through my nose. Cute. Like that’s going to stop me.
Nothing does. Not when I want something. And I want everything.
Her texts. Her location. Her contacts. Her schedule. Her past, her patterns—her fucking blood type if it comes to that. I want the world she hides when she thinks no one’s watching.
Installing the tracker is easy. Almost too easy. She’ll never know it’s there. She’ll keep moving through her little routines, completely unaware that I can see her.
I lean back against the wall, adjusting the hard-on that’s been testing the seam of my jeans ever since I pinned her against that library ladder and made her forget her own name.
I’ve already decided—she’s mine.
The taste of her is still on my tongue and I don’t want to forget it anytime soon. I want it seared into me.
She still thinks she has the upper hand here, but she doesn’t even know she’s already lost.
I close my eyes, slowing my breathing. Not because I need calm, but because I need control. If I let myself slip for even a second, I’ll be in her room so fast, dragging her skirt up and licking her open again just to hear that wrecked little gasp she tried so desperately to swallow.
Her lights have been out for twenty-seven minutes. No movement. No pacing. Which means she’s asleep. And when she sleeps, she sleeps hard.
Just for a second, something tugs at the edge of my focus. A hairline fracture in the pattern I’ve already memorized.
She doesn’t stray. Every movement, every stop—down to her coffee order—is consistent. Predictable. But not like most people.
