Page 90 of His To Erase
I can feel the heat coming off his bare chest and the drag of his eyes over my skin like he’s memorizing the parts of me I’m assuming he’s already seen—because again, these clothes aren’t mine.
Love that for me. Nothing says romance like medical trauma and unsolicited nudity.
His face is so close I can see the flecks of gold cutting through the dark in his eyes. They’re sharp, and dangerous in a way. But beneath all that control, there’s something darker. Something hungry. And it’s locked onto me.
He’s got serial killer eyes and I’m turned on. This is going great. I try to breathe through it, but my chest is tight, and my body is caught in the gravity of him, every inhale is shallow, every inch of space between us slowly shrinks like it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Why did you bring me here?” I manage. “Needed a project?”
That flicker of dark amusement vanishes from his face, and his jaw clenches.
“I already told you—I didn’t feel like explaining to the cops why some girl was half-dead in an alley.”
“I didn’t ask you to save me,” I snap, but my voice breaks somewhere in the middle.
His eyes flash. “No. You were too busy getting the shit kicked out of you to ask.”
I shift, dragging my elbow back against the mattress to sit up, just enough to put space between us. My shoulder screams in protest, and I hiss through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t move to help me—he just watches with that cold, unreadable stare.
Cool. I’m bleeding, bruised, and getting emotionally steamrolled by an action-figure version of Satan. Living the dream.
Then, he slowly leans in again and the air tightens. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
I lift my chin, forcing the words past the ache in my throat. “Enlighten me.”
His fingers brush a piece of hair from my cheek but I feel it everywhere.
“You think this is about saving you?” His voice drops to something cold and lethal. “If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you’d never have made it out of that alley.”
My heart stumbles, and not in a sweet, swoony way. In awhat the hell is wrong with mekind of way.
“But you didn’t,” I whisper.
His eyes drag to my mouth. “No,” he says, roughly. “I don’t.”
The silence stretches way too loud for how close he is. Then his voice drops again, deeper this time. And it hits like a warning.
“Next time you walk out a back door alone, maybe think about what would’ve happened if I wasn’t there.”
I swallow and it burns all the way down. Oh great, now I’ve got shame and arousal mixing in my bloodstream. Fantastic. What a cocktail.
“Why did you follow me?” I ask.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Okay. Rude.
His hand drops, grazing the line of my waist—and it shoots a full-body tremor down my spine.
“You just have a talent for stepping into shit that doesn’t concern you.”
I shove at his chest, only my fingers just touch muscle and unfairness.
“Fuck you.”
He catches my wrist like it’s nothing and that smirk returns—sharp enough to cut bone.
“You’re not ready for that,” he murmurs. “You’re recovering.”
