Page 81 of His To Erase
She thrashes against me, frantic now. If someone rounds that corner, I don’t care. I won’t stop.
I lean in. “I know you’re close.”
My fingers start moving again, slowly. I know I’m being cruel, but I don’t care.
“Just hold on for me, sweetheart. You’re doing so fucking good.”
Her eyes crash into mine—wide, desperate, and furious. She shakes her head.
“I hate you,” she chokes out, even as her thighs shake.
“I—fuck—hate you.”
Her wet pussy throbs around my fingers like she’s trying to break on them. I dip my head and bite the curve of her shoulder, and she spreads her thighs wider, offering herself up like she doesn’t even realize it.
I pull out slowly, dragging wet fingers between her thighs, across that swollen, needy mess I just made of her.
“Don’t look away,” I whisper against her skin. “You feel that? Hm? Does he do this to you?”
She moans and shakes her head. Still I hold her there. Because this is what she gets. I slam three fingers back into her, hard enough to jolt her whole body.
My other hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to bare her throat. She gasps—half sob, half curse.
“Fuck you,” she breathes.
I sink my teeth into her neck and growl, “Now. Come for me.”
Her hands clutch at me like I’m her last salvation—but she fucking breaks. She comes hard and messy, choking on a sob she tries to bury in my shoulder, but it tears out of her anyway.
I want it burned into her memory—how loud she got for me. I want her to remember that no one else will ever pull that sound from her again.
They can try.
Her body goes limp while her thighs are still twitching, her breath is all hiccupped panic and overstimulation.
I let her fall forward, forehead pressed to my chest, my fingers still inside her. Still holding her open. Still owning every single piece of her.
She just breathes against my throat—shallow and uneven—her body still trying to decide if it survived what I just did to it.Her fingers twitch against my chest, the aftermath still pulsing through her like an aftershock.
She broke, and I should feel satisfied. But all I feel is this fucked-up need to keep her here. I didn’t just get under her skin—she got under mine, too. I could sit here for hours just feeling the weight of her on me.
I don’t rush her, because I want her to sit with it. I want her to feel every filthy thing I just did. Every sound I dragged out of her, and every inch I claimed like she was made for it.
Her breath finally stumbles out, and she shifts—barely—like she’s remembering where we are.
I drag the pad of my thumb over the inside of her thigh and she tenses again and starts to push up.
I grip her hips before she can move. “Next time, you don’t let anyone else put their hands on you.”
She goes still like I struck a nerve. “I can’t be this girl.”
My grip tightens, but I let the silence stretch between us, my fingers curl around her waist, and my other hand is resting on her bare thigh. My dick is still hard as a fucking rock under her and I’m considering taking her right now.
She doesn’t breathe for a second too long and I feel the war inside her rise again.
The one she’ll never win.
Not against me.
